


sweet dreams and flying machines

by somehowunbroken



Series: sleep tight [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Break Up, Gen, M/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-07-23 17:30:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7473249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somehowunbroken/pseuds/somehowunbroken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan's an Oiler through and through. He can't say he's been there for all of the bad days, but he's seen a lot of them. There have always been bright spots, though, even when the curse on Rexall seems like it's sapping every bit of joy from hockey and from life in general.</p><p>And then Nail finds out what the curse wants from him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sweet dreams and flying machines

**Author's Note:**

> this is technically a prequel to "burn your kingdom down" in that it takes place before that story is set. it's meant to be read as a sequel, though, as it gives away a major plot point from the first story. (you can read them out of order if you truly want to, of course; it just makes the original story less effective overall.)
> 
> this is not the happy hallsy/ebs story people asked for. this is the sad hallsy/ebs story that nobody wanted, but them's the breaks, i guess. sorry. the ending is not necessarily happy, but this story is the lead-up to "burn your kingdom down," which fixes everything. spoilery content notes at the end, if you need them.
> 
> thanks to ari for alpha reading, and S. for beta and yelling duties. you're both the greatest.
> 
>  **possible syn warning:** there are two scenes in this fic that might require a warning if you have synesthesia issues, or get easily squicked by descriptions of injury. check the end notes for additinoal spoilery warnings.
> 
> title from james taylor's "fire and rain," mostly because _always thought that i'd see you again_ hurts too much not to mention.

Ryan's week goes like this: he spends a couple of days in St. Paul, doing his best to goof off for the cameras following him and the other top prospects around; he's drafted first overall to the Edmonton Oilers; he returns home to Burnaby to find a letter in the mailbox hand-addressed to him by Ryan Smyth.

Inside the envelope is a sort of generic "congratulations, welcome to the team" letter — which is a little ironic, honestly, considering Ryan was drafted before Smyth was traded back to the Oilers. He's a veteran, though, and Ryan's aware that he'd been on the team for years in the 90s, so it's probably just him reaching out. That's what he thinks until he gets to the last line, anyway.

 _Call me when you read this_ , the letter ends, and then gives a phone number. It's local, Ryan notices absently. _There are things you need to know about Edmonton. Please get in touch._

"That's a little ominous," he mutters. He's pretty sure Smyth is from somewhere in Alberta, so there's no reason for him to have a local number, but it's the only one Ryan has, so he pulls out his phone and dials.

-0-

"Call me Smytty," Ryan Smyth offers. "And you're, what, Nuge?"

"Yeah," Ryan says. They're sitting in the bar attached to one of the hotels uptown, and Ryan very carefully isn't going to ask why Smytty's here. "It's nice to meet you."

"You too," Smytty says agreeably. He studies Ryan for a moment before reaching halfway across the table and laying his hand down, palm-up.

Ryan looks at it for a moment before raising an eyebrow. "No offense, but I'm not really interested in holding your hand."

Smytty grins and wiggles his fingers, and Ryan jumps when Smytty's skin suddenly flares bright blue. It fades after a moment, but now Ryan can see all of the intricate spellwork wrapping around him, the lines running up and down his body, concentrated in some areas and barely covering others. It's a lot of heavy-duty work, and Ryan jolts again when he realises he recognises the colors of almost all of the spellwork. Blue and orange. Oilers colors.

"There are things you need to know about Edmonton," Smytty says, just like he had in his letter. "I can tell you, but it'll be easier to show you."

Ryan's eyes snap back to Smytty's face. "You can show me?" he asks. He doesn't mean to sound skeptical, but being able to project like that is pretty high-level magic. If Smytty's capable of something like that, then Ryan has no idea what he's doing playing hockey.

"It's not projection," Smytty says, cutting off Ryan's train of thought. "It's more… memory-sharing." He waggles his fingers again.

Ryan stares at his hand for a few seconds before nodding and reaching out, taking Smytty's hand firmly in his own.

It's disorienting, is Ryan's first thought. He'd been sitting in a stiff-backed booth, leaning slightly forward, but he blinks and he's in skates and practice gear, leaning on his stick. It feels off, somehow, like his body isn't where it's supposed to be, and Ryan has to force himself to remember that he's experiencing someone else's memory.

"Hey, Smytty," one of the guys says. It takes Ryan a moment to place him; he's fifteen years younger and wearing skates instead of a suit, but it's definitely Kelly Buchburger. He's an assistant coach for Ryan's version of the Oilers, but he's a player in Smytty's memory. "You're a caster, right?"

Smytty nods. "Not great at it, but yeah. Why, got a headache or something?"

"Not really," Buchburger says slowly. "Look, kid, I wanted to give you a heads up, okay? There's weird stuff happens around here. Doesn't touch me much, but I'm blank. Casters, breakers, you guys all seem to have trouble." He shakes his head.

Ryan feels Smytty's face pull into a frown. "What, like, there's a sensitivity thing? I didn't think there was much limestone in oil country."

"Nah, that's all back east," Buchburger says. "No, I mean…" He hesitates, then sighs. "Look, people are calling it a curse. They're saying it's related to the trade."

"The trade," Smytty echoes. "Someone cursed us because of Gretz?"

"That's what they're saying," Buchburger says, shrugging a little. "I just wanted to let you know, okay?" He sighs. "You might get bad dreams. Weird bad ones. If you do, well, tell the training staff. They're keeping track."

"I'll, uh," Smytty says, but Ryan's only sort of paying attention, mind reeling from what he's seeing. He jolts and focuses more when the memory goes fuzzy before snapping into clarity at some point later. He's sitting now, staring down at Smytty's hands, shaking where they're clasped between his legs.

"Kid," Buchburger sighs.

Smytty flexes his fingers. "You're not that much older than me, Buchs."

" _Kid_ ," Buchburger says more firmly. "Whatever it wanted from you, you can tell it no. You don't have to do it."

"I won't," Smytty says immediately. "I can't."

"Then don't," Buchburger says. "It'll do… something else. They're trying to figure out how to predict what the other thing is. But you don't have to give the curse what it wants."

Something wiggles around in Ryan's consciousness, but he can't pin it down before the thought flees. He tries to focus on it, to follow what had felt pretty important, but instead he feels Smytty pulling him away from the memory. He braces himself for another time jump, but instead he blinks back into his own body, staring across the table at Smytty as he unclasps their hands.

"Now you know the basics," he says simply. "Let me fill in some of the details for you."

-0-

Being an Oiler is—

Well, okay. Ryan has a thing about being as honest with himself as he can manage to be, and the truth is that being an Oiler sucks almost as much as it's the most awesome thing in the world. He gets to play hockey with some insanely talented people at a level he couldn't even begin to imagine even a month ago, but the trade-off to being drafted first overall is that you end up on a team that has a very recent history of not being able to get its shit together.

It doesn't help that the first time Ryan walks into Rexall, he has to grab the nearest thing to help support himself when he sees centre ice. He's a better than average caster, so it doesn't surprise him that he can see the spellwork there; what _does_ surprise him is how bizarre it looks. Normal spells, whether they're wards or curses or something in the middle, tend to settle into the thing they're cast upon pretty quickly after they're set. This… the thing, the curse mark, it looks like it's in the midst of being cast. It's shimmering and pulsing, almost, and it hovers a little above the ice, like it's ready to reach out and take something with no notice at all.

"Nuge?" he hears, and that's when he realises he grabbed Jordan Eberle instead of the wall he was aiming for.

"Uh," he says, sounding shaky to his own ears. "Sorry, Ebs, I just…"

"It's a lot," Jordan says quietly. "Sorry. I forgot you hadn't seen it before or I would've warned you."

"Shit, did it get him already?" Taylor asks, coming up behind them. He looks at Ryan and frowns. "You don't look so good, Nuge."

"It's," Ryan says, taking a deep breath. He's still got a death grip on Jordan's arm, but Jordan looks more sympathetic than annoyed, so Ryan's just going to… keep holding on. "Yeah. It's definitely a lot?"

"So I've heard," Taylor says. He slips his arm around Ryan's waist and leans them so he's taking most of Ryan's weight. "C'mon, trainers' room. Did you have a dream?"

"Not yet," Ryan says as he manages to let go of Jordan's arm. "I just… I wasn't expecting to see it like that."

"I should've warned you," Jordan says, following them down the hall towards the trainers' room. "Shit, Hallsy, remember when I first saw it?"

"I thought he was gonna puke," Taylor confides cheerily. "He didn't, but I was running for a bucket."

"It feels bad," Jordan says. "Just because you wouldn't know a spell if someone actually made it rain sparkles around you all the time—"

"I'm not that bad," Taylor protests, then shrugs a little. "Well. I mean, magic still _works_ on me. I just can't see it."

"And it takes a lot of extra effort," Jordan interjects. It's clearly a well-worn argument, and it's not that Ryan doesn't care, but he definitely doesn't want to witness it right now.

"Lucky you can't see it," Ryan mutters, then clears his throat a little. He takes a cautious step away from Taylor and feels pretty steady, which is a marked improvement. "Have you? Had a dream?"

Jordan and Taylor share a look that's so obviously full of something they don't want to talk about that Ryan can almost feel it. "I have," Jordan says eventually. "Last night, actually."

Ryan's eyes widen. "Shit, sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to — sorry."

Taylor shrugs. "I haven't," he offers. "We kind of thought neither of us would? Not everyone does, and we went through all of last year with nothing."

"I guess we're not the lucky ones," Jordan says, trying for a smile. Ryan doesn't know either of them well, not yet, but even he can tell that Jordan looks more sick than amused. "That's why we're going to the trainers, though. Gotta report it, when the dream happens."

"But only tell team people," Taylor adds."Creepy dreams are creepy, but it's spelled into your contract. Don't talk to non-team people about the curse or your eyes will fall out, or something."

Jordan snorts. "Doubtful. It _is_ spelled in there, though."

Ryan wants so badly to ask about Jordan's dream, but one of the things Smytty had cautioned him about was how personal the dreams tended to be. He'd shuddered as he told Ryan about his own dream, and Ryan's suddenly very sure he's not ready to hear about whatever the curse wants from Jordan.

"I'm feeling a lot better, guys," he says as they reach the trainers' room. "I think it was just — shock, y'know?"

"Yeah, probably," Jordan agrees. "But you're not getting out of talking to the trainers." He sounds incredibly firm for a guy who looks like he's desperately grasping at calm with both hands.

"Definitely not," Taylor agrees. He shoots Ryan a look, then glances at Jordan. Ryan gets the message loud and clear: _please let him worry about something else for a little while_.

"Ugh, fine," he says, rolling his eyes at Jordan. "They're just going to make me late for practice, though."

"You're the Nuge," Jordan says, and this time his smile is a little better. "I'm pretty sure they'll forgive you."

"They pretty much have to," Taylor adds, throwing his arm around Jordan's shoulders and directing him into the trainers' room. "We should get that spelled into our next contracts."

"Yeah, we should work on that," Ryan agrees, following them in.

 _Next contract_ , he thinks a little shakily. He's going to be here for a while, stuck playing for the Oilers and skating with whatever's living out there on the ice.

-0-

He gets used to it. It's surprising, but it's also not; the trainers tweak some of the protection charms they set for him every week so it's at least a little blocked, and he notices it less as time wears on. Between the spellwork and the grind of actually playing hockey, it fades to the back of Ryan's mind. Even when he gets injured, when he catches an edge and goes down hard and fucks up something in his shoulder, he's sure it's not the curse; after all, he hasn't had a dream. Other than the shimmering curse mark that he can still see at centre ice if he's looking for it, the curse doesn't really cross his mind.

And then Jordan's knee gives out halfway through the season.

"It's gonna be fine," he assures Ryan. He's propped up on the sofa in the apartment he and Taylor share. Ryan stopped by to see if there was anything he could do; Taylor had given him strict instructions to not let Jordan get off the sofa for any reason that wasn't directly bathroom-related while he made a grocery run. Ryan's pretty sure Jordan is on the good stuff; he's not tracking right, and he's laying way too still. "A couple of weeks, maybe a month. Gonna be fine, Nuge."

"Is it," Ryan asks, fidgeting a little. "Is this the curse?"

"Didn't give it what it wanted," Jordan says. "The dream was a while ago. Probably this is the curse's revenge for not getting what it wants." He laughs a little, then waves his hands around in the air and makes a weird moaning noise. "Spooky!"

"Christ, what did they even give you?" Ryan says, but he's smiling a little against his will. He leans back in his chair. "So you didn't give it what it wanted?"

Jordan frowns, all evidence of good humor gone. "No. No way. It can hurt my knee, but it can't have Taylor."

Ryan's breath catches, and he thinks back to what Smytty had said about his own dream. "Did it want... it wanted you to hurt him?"

"No," Jordan says, drawing it out. "It wanted me to give him up."

Ryan can't even begin to imagine a version of Jordan who would give Taylor up. They're close in a way Ryan feels like he recognises, but won't let himself ask about. "That's," he says, but he doesn't know how to end his thought.

"It would hurt him, though," Jordan says, shifting so he can stare at the wall behind Ryan's shoulder. "And me. I can't give him up. I love him."

"Oh," Ryan says, and yeah, that's… not surprising, not really. He hadn't let himself wonder about exactly that, but it makes Taylor-and-Jordan make a lot more sense.

Jordan suddenly goes stiff. "Fuck," he shouts. He looks around a little wildly, then settles his gaze on Ryan. "Fuck. I just outed us, didn't I?"

Ryan raises his hands. "Ebs—"

"Fuck," Jordan repeats miserably, rolling onto his back and wincing. It must be pulling at his knee. "I'm the one who said we should keep it a secret, and now—"

"Jordan," Ryan cuts in, reaching over to grab one of Jordan's hands. He squeezes hard and holds on, and Jordan eventually turns his head so he's looking at Ryan again. "It's fine, I swear it's fine. I get it, okay? I don't blame you for not giving Taylor up."

Jordan stares at him for a long, long time, but Ryan holds his gaze quietly, and finally Jordan sighs and relaxes. "You're a good dude, Nuge," Jordan says, eyes slipping closed. "Is Taylor home yet?"

"I'll text him," Ryan promises. "I'm sure he'll be home soon."

"Best Nuge," Jordan mumbles, and Ryan has to hide his smile as he gets up and walks out.

Ryan heads for the kitchen and pulls out his phone. There's a text from Taylor waiting that just says _omw_ , and it's a few minutes old. Ryan puts his phone on the table and waits, glad he doesn't have to attempt one-handed texting. He really can't wait to get the okay to ditch the sling.

It's only another five minutes before Taylor's key turns in the door and he walks in. He dumps a few grocery bags on the counter and glances towards the den. "Is he okay?" he asks quietly.

"He, uh," Ryan says just as quietly. He's pretty sure Jordan has dozed off, and he doesn't want to wake him up. "He's really drugged up, Hallsy. I asked him if this was about the curse, and he…"

Taylor's face goes pale when Ryan trails off. "He told you we were together," he says. Ryan's never heard Taylor sound less than completely sure of things, even when they're down four late in the third. Right now, he sounds like he's gonna freak out. "Nuge—"

"Mutually assured destruction," Ryan interrupts. "Me too, okay?"

"What?" Taylor asks blankly.

Ryan digs his phone out of his pocket and scrolls way back in his photos. He'd deleted most of the more telling ones, but he couldn't bring himself to get rid of all of the evidence. He turns to show Taylor the last photo of himself and Chase he has on his phone. "Me too," he repeats.

Taylor looks at the photo. Ryan knows it's not much, as far as proof goes, but Chase is tucked under Ryan's arm, and Ryan knows the expression on his own face as he looks down at Chase is open, fond. Taylor stares at it for a while, then looks up at Ryan. "You're with him?"

"I was," Ryan says, reaching out to take his phone back. "We were together for two years while I was in Red Deer. He played for the high school team there."

"You broke up," Taylor says.

Ryan shrugs. "I was going to the NHL. He was going to college in Seattle. We're still friends." On Facebook, at least; they're both busy, and Ryan's still a little raw, even almost a year after they ended things.

Taylor shifts a little awkwardly. "Uh. Sorry for freaking out?"

"Trust me, I would too,' Ryan says, shrugging as he pockets his phone again. "It's cool, okay? I promise I'm not going to tell anyone, and I'm on your side one hundred percent."

"Thanks," Taylor says, blowing out a huge breath.

"I'm gonna head back to Jonesy's," Ryan says, standing up and getting his keys out of his pocket. He's not really supposed to drive, but his shoulder feels okay when he's not pushing it.

Taylor reaches out and snags his good wrist. He tugs Ryan in carefully, giving him a tight hug. "You're the best," he says, letting Ryan go and shooting him a sincere smile. "We'll talk, okay? Just… later."

"Go check on him," Ryan says, making a little shooing motion with his hand.

Taylor gives him a lazy salute and then turns and heads for the den. Ryan hears him murmur something to Jordan, and he leaves before he overhears anything else they might not be ready to share with him.

-0-

It takes Ryan a moment to realise his phone is ringing. He's not really that great at waking up suddenly, and it's definitely not his alarm; it's still dark out. "H'lo?" he finally manages.

There's staticky silence, and Ryan pulls his phone away from his face and squints at it, making sure he didn't imagine it ringing and then pick up nothing. Taylor's face beams back at him, a photo Ryan had managed to grab while Taylor was too busy smiling at something Jordan had said to pull his customary ridiculous photo face.

Ryan brings the phone back to his face. "Hallsy? What's going on, man? Is Ebs okay?"

There's a shaky sigh. "He's okay," Taylor finally says. He sounds raw, kind of wrecked, and Ryan is instantly, completely awake. "Sleeping like the dead. He, uh."

"He what?" Ryan asks, climbing out of bed and grabbing for some clothes. 

"He slept through it," Taylor says hoarsely. "I had my dream, Nuge. I had the same dream he did."

Ryan manages to juggle his phone through pulling on a hoodie, then jams his feet into his sneakers and grabs his keys from the dresser. "I'm coming over."

"It's three in the morning," Taylor says.

"You called," Ryan says. "I'm coming over." He opens his door and creeps down the hallway, hoping he doesn't wake up Jonesy or his wife. They'd already chewed him out once today for driving with his shoulder the way it is; he'd rather avoid a repeat performance. "I'm sneaking out of my house. I feel like I'm thirteen again."

"Wait, you _aren't_ thirteen?" Taylor fires back immediately. 

Ryan doesn't even try to hide his grin; if Taylor's chirping him, then he'll probably be okay. "I'm getting in my car," he says as he slips out the front door and manages to get it closed without it squeaking or slamming. "I'll be there in fifteen."

"You live twenty minutes away, Nuge," Taylor says.

"Your point?" Ryan asks, humming.

"Watch out for black ice, I guess," Taylor says after a moment.

Ryan turns the car on and puts the heater as high as it'll go. His next car is definitely going to have one of those automatic start buttons so he doesn't have to deal with this. "Make me a hot chocolate. It's fucking cold out."

"Yeah, yeah," Taylor replies. "See you in a few."

The drive really does only take him fifteen minutes; unsurprisingly, there aren't too many people on the roads at three in the morning during the dead of winter. There's a parking spot right near the door to Taylor and Jordan's building, so Ryan slides into it and makes a mad dash for the door. Taylor buzzes him in right away, and when Ryan makes it up to the apartment, the first thing Taylor does is hold out a steaming cup of hot chocolate.

"Thanks," Ryan says, curling his fingers around it and holding it close to his face. The steam feels great. "It's gotta be -10 out there."

"Canada: it's fucking cold here," Taylor says solemnly. He smiles after he says it, but there's definitely something strained about it.

Ryan takes a sip of his hot chocolate. "Is Ebs still sleeping?"

Taylor nods his head down the hall. "I packed him into the bed with, like, almost every pillow in the apartment, and I made him take one of the good painkillers. He should sleep through the night."

"That's why he didn't wake up when…" Ryan trails off.

"Yeah," Taylor says, pushing a hand through his hair. "Uh, do you want to, like, sit down? We can talk standing in the hall if you want, but I promise the sofa's more comfortable."

Ryan motions down the hall. "Lead on."

Once they're settled onto the sofa, Taylor sighs. "I woke up when he had his," he starts. "I mean, it'd be impossible not to, right? You're sleeping with someone right next to you, and all of a sudden they're shouting your name and crying. You wake up in a hurry."

"Whoa," Ryan says. He can feel his eyes going wide. "That's terrifying."

"All he did the first hour was cry," Taylor says, like the words are being wrenched out of him. He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the sofa. "I don't — we've been through a lot of shit together, me and him. I hope he never has a night like that again. It was awful."

"I'm sorry," Ryan offers.

Taylor shakes his head. "He gave me the details, sort of. The curse wanted him to break up with me at the rink."

"So it could get more out of it," Ryan murmurs.

"I guess," Taylor says, shrugging. "I didn't really get it when he explained it. I mean, don't get me wrong, everything about it sounded awful, but I didn't get why he was so upset." He shudders. "I get it now."

"It's vivid," Ryan guesses.

"Yeah," Taylor says darkly. "It's… you don't know it's a dream at first, not really. Like most dreams, I guess." He glares at the coffee table. "But then you see things and they're really specific in a way dreams aren't. Like, I can remember the exact wording of the whole awful fight."

Ryan grimaces. "Shit."

"Yeah," Taylor says again. "And, like, at the end? It's… you know exactly what's going on. There's this freaky voice that says _this is your price_." His voice drops at the end, gravelly and scratchy in a way Taylor's voice just isn't, and it makes the hair on the back of Ryan's neck stand up.

"That's creepy as shit," Ryan says, trying to keep his voice level.

"You're telling me," Taylor says.

They sit in silence for a little while; Ryan's trying to process everything, and Taylor seems like he's trying to forget as quickly as possible. They both startle at a sound from down the hall.

"Taylor?" Jordan says sleepily, leaning against the doorframe of the bedroom at the end of the hall.

Taylor leaps out of his seat. "Hey, hey, what are you doing up?"

Jordan frowns at Taylor, then at Ryan. "It's early," he says plainly. "Why is Nuge in the living room?"

"We had some stuff to talk about," Taylor says. His tone of voice is oddly gentle as he cups Jordan's elbow. "Why are you out of bed, huh?"

"I'm thirsty," Jordan says. "I wanted water, but you weren't in bed. I was coming to find you."

"Nuge," Taylor says, still in that soft tone of voice. "I'm gonna get Ebby here back into his pillow fortress. Can you get him a glass of water?"

"Sure, yeah," Ryan says, getting up and heading for the kitchen. He's been over here enough that he knows where they keep the glasses, but he still takes his time filling one up. He's not sure if it's Jordan or Taylor who might need that time, but he'll give it to them either way.

Finally, though, he figures that he should actually bring the water to Jordan, so he makes sure he steps heavily in the hallway so he doesn't interrupt anything they don't want him seeing. He still stops short in the doorway, though.

Jordan's back in the bed, and true to what Taylor had said earlier, there are an absolutely ridiculous number of pillows stacked in there with him. He's smiling up at Taylor even though it's clear he's in pain, and as Ryan watches, Taylor leans over and presses a kiss to Jordan's forehead.

"Would do it again," Jordan mumbles. "It hurts and it's stupid. Still way better than losing you."

"Right back at you," Taylor promises, and Ryan already knew that Taylor wouldn't give Jordan up, but hearing it like this is… well. Ryan coughs and knocks on the door, but Taylor doesn't startle like Ryan kind of figured he would. "Hey," he says, pulling back and nodding. "Find the water okay?"

"Yeah," Ryan says. He walks in and hands the glass to Jordan. "Uh, I'll just…" He motions vaguely back towards the living room.

"Thanks," Jordan says, waving at Ryan.

"I'll be out in a few," Taylor promises. Ryan nods and goes to resume his spot on the sofa.

Taylor comes out a few minutes later, just like he'd said. "Thanks," he says quietly. "For helping out, and for coming, I guess."

"Yeah, no problem," Ryan says. He leans his head back against the sofa and yawns. "Do you mind if I crash here? I'm wiped."

"Yeah, sure," Taylor says. He waves down the hallway. "Crash in my room. The sheets are clean."

"I can take the sofa," Ryan protests.

Taylor rolls his eyes. "Dude. Ebs and I share. I haven't slept in there once this season."

Ryan can feel his cheeks flush a little. "Oh. Right."

"Do you need a pill for your shoulder?" Taylor asks.

"Didn't bring them," Ryan admits. He hadn't really been thinking about anything past getting to Taylor's when he'd left.

"Hockey household," Taylor reminds him. "If you need a pill, man, I am a hundred percent sure we can find you one. Name your poison."

Ryan nods and carefully rolls his shoulder a little bit. It's sore, but it's not killing him. "Maybe just an Advil," he decides.

"Can do," Taylor says, disappearing into the kitchen. He pops back out a moment later and hands Ryan the pills, then a glass of water. "You want something else to sleep in?"

"You think I changed out of my pajamas when I came running over here?" Ryan asks, raising an eyebrow. "I'm good as long as there's at least one pillow left in there."

Taylor nods, then frowns. "I'll check," he says, heading towards the bedroom. "I did use a ton of them to prop Ebby up."

"I noticed," Ryan says dryly.

"But I left one!" Taylor says as he peeks into the bedroom. "Okay, pillow and Advil taken care of. Anything else?"

"I should be asking you that," Ryan says. "Are you okay? Will you be able to sleep?"

Taylor sighs and shrugs. "I'm gonna go crawl back in bed with my boyfriend and try not to think bad thoughts about my knees. I have no idea if I'll sleep, but I'll definitely try."

"Good luck," Ryan says. He hovers in the doorway a little, not sure if there's anything else he should be doing, but Taylor nods and claps him very gently on his good shoulder before heading to the other bedroom.

Ryan does his best to settle into the bed and drift off, but he keeps wondering what his own dream will be like. He can't imagine it; he doesn't really want to, but at the same time, he has no idea what the curse will ask of him. He doesn't have any hope that he won't have a dream eventually, not really, and he can't decide if he's better off not knowing.

He closes his eyes and waits. It's all he can do at this point.

-0-

Jordan is playing again in a few weeks' time, but it takes Ryan almost two full months to get his shoulder in shape. By the time he's let back onto the ice, he's determined to ignore anything and everything that could possibly be curse-related in favor of making up as much lost time as he can. There's still talk about him getting a Calder nomination, but he knows he'll have to play his ass off if he wants any shot at a serious nod.

He's only back for three weeks before Taylor suffers a concussion. Ryan puts his hand on Jordan's thigh and squeezes as they lead Taylor down the tunnel, and Jordan takes a deep breath and nods. They win it 3-1, but when Ryan follows Jordan down the tunnel and straight into the trainers' room, he immediately knows it isn't good.

Taylor's on his back with the lights dimmed, but he turns to see them as they walk in. "Hey," he says tiredly, waving. "So. I'm probably done for the season."

Jordan's face crumples a little before he can catch himself, but he shakes his head and nods after a moment. "Your head?" he asks softly.

"Yeah," Taylor says, closing his eyes. "Minor, they're saying, but I heard them talking about doing shoulder surgery. Fucked it up in Juniors, hasn't gotten any better, and it's not worth putting me back out there for the end here." He laughs a little bitterly.

Ryan rubs at his own shoulder. It feels fine most of the time, but he remembers the flare of pain, and the agony in waiting for it to heal. "Sorry, Hallsy," he offers. He hesitates, because he doesn't want to ask about the curse, but Taylor must see it in his face.

"I didn't give it what it wanted," he says, reaching his hand out. Jordan steps forward and takes it, and Ryan had known that he hadn't, that he wouldn't, but it never hurts to get confirmation.

"So it took your season," Ryan finishes. He closes his eyes for a moment. "I'm getting more and more scared of it, to be honest with you."

"I wish I could tell you not to be," Jordan says after a moment. "It's… definitely scary."

Taylor snorts. "You'll live," he promises. "The dream sucks, the injury sucks, but." He shrugs, which is a little weird since he's laying down. "The curse doesn't kill people. It just makes you miserable for a little while."

"And then you get better," Jordan says. Ryan can see his fingers tighten briefly around Taylor's.

"And then you get better," Taylor agrees as his eyes close. "Even if you need surgery."

Ryan raises an eyebrow. "I thought you fucked up your shoulder in Juniors."

"Started there," Taylor says. "S'worse now. Definitely needs surgery, even if I don't want it."

Jordan looks like he wants to say something, but one of the trainers walks in and frowns at them. "Don't bother him," she chastises. "He has a concussion."

"Sorry, Aly," Ryan says, edging towards the door.

Jordan doesn't budge. "What about his shoulder?"

Aly's eyes widen, but she nods after a moment. "We'd like to schedule surgery for the beginning of next month, once we're sure his concussion has healed," she says. "There's going to be a long recovery period, probably five or six months. If we get ahead of it, schedule it for now instead of putting it off until the season is totally over, he might be ready to start next season."

"Shit," Taylor mutters. He hasn't opened his eyes since Aly walked in. "That's gonna fuck with my offseason."

Jordan gently taps Taylor's good shoulder. "Better than it fucking with your actual season. Again."

"That's the thinking," Aly says. "Look, Taylor, it's not ideal. Nobody's saying that. But it looks like it's our best option given the current circumstances."

"Sucks," Taylor grumbles.

Aly rolls her eyes, and Ryan does his best to hide a grin. "Yes, Taylor. It sucks."

"Can I take him home?" Jordan interjects before Taylor can say anything else.

"You should probably change first," Aly says dryly, "but yeah. As soon as you're ready to go, he can go with you." Her eyes flick to Ryan. "Are you feeling okay, Ryan? How's your shoulder?"

Ryan reaches his arms over his head and brings them back down. "I'm fine. I'm just here to check on Hallsy."

"Okay," she says, eyeing him a little suspiciously. "If you're sure."

"Completely sure," Ryan assures her. "I'm really fine. I promise."

"Come in if it doesn't feel one hundred percent," she says sternly. "Also, shower. Both of you."

"Will do," Ryan says, escaping and heading for the locker room.

Most of the guys are gone, but Smytty's sitting in his locker, doing something on his phone. He looks up when Ryan walks in, and he looks… tired, Ryan thinks. He smiles thinly at Ryan. "Is the kid okay?"

Ryan flashes back to the memory Smytty had shared with him, Buchburger calling him _kid_ , seeming older than he must've actually been. _Edmonton wears on you_ , Ryan thinks suddenly.

He shakes his head a little to clear it. "He'll be okay," he says, stripping off his jersey and slinging it at the laundry bin. "Minor concussion. It's his season, though, because they're gonna fix his shoulder since he's already out."

Smytty sighs. "This damn place," he mutters. "You okay? Had any weird dreams?"

"I haven't," Ryan says. As soon as the words leave his mouth, the hair on the back of his neck pricks up, and he can't help his shiver. "I'm just trying to play, you know?"

"I know," Smytty says. He sighs again. "Look, call me if you need me, you got it? Day or night."

Ryan had been leaning down to unlace his skates, but he pauses and looks at Smytty. "That sounds like a warning, Smytty."

Smytty raises his hands. "I don't know the future," he says. "Just… the curse got Hallsy, yeah? So now it's gonna pick someone else. And it usually doesn't wait too long."

"Great," Ryan mutters, going back to unlacing his skates. "That's gonna help me sleep tonight for sure."

"Sorry," Smytty says. He stands and stretches. "Seriously, Nuge. Call me if you need me."

"Will do," Ryan replies, pulling his skates off and rolling his ankles. "G'night, Smytty."

Smytty nods and walks for the door. "Night, Nuge."

Ryan focuses on getting undressed, showered, dressed in his street clothes. He very carefully doesn't think about Taylor and his shoulder, or Jordan and his knee. He thinks about what he's going to eat before he goes to bed, and he very, very desperately doesn't think anything about what might happen when he falls asleep.

-0-

Ryan dreams of fire.

He's standing on a pillar, wide enough for him to be able to turn around and get a view of everything that's burning around him. It's hard to see through all the smoke, but he concentrates on the shadows he can see until he recognises the tree hanging over the porch, the bay window that peeks out of the living room, the way the yard slopes down heading towards the road. It's home, it's his house, and it's burning, windows shattering and roof caving in and his brother yelling, _Ryan, Ryan, how could you_ —

 _This is your price_ , something whispers, and Ryan wakes up shaking.

-0-

"You don't have to give it what it wants," Smytty tells him very seriously.

Ryan nods, but he can't get his fingers to unclench. He's been on Jonesy's porch since he woke up, and he dialled Smytty not long after that. He lives with Jonesy, sure, and Jonesy had been very clear about Ryan going to him with whatever he needed, but Smytty's the one who had taken him aside and told him about the weird shit that happens at Rexall all those months ago. He's the one who had told Ryan, in bits and spat-out pieces, about the dream he'd had when he first skated for Edmonton, about facing his brother Kevin down at centre ice and slashing at his ankles, his wrists, until Kevin was a sobbing, writhing mess before him. He'd told Ryan not ten hours ago to call if he needed to; Ryan's not sure he believes that Smytty can't see the future, but he's grateful that Smytty hadn't asked a single question when Ryan had called.

"You don't have to tell me yours," Smytty adds, and Ryan jerks back to himself. He opens his mouth and then shuts it, nodding gratefully.

"I didn't do it," Smytty says eventually. "Obviously."

Ryan jerks a little and turns to look at him. "You haven't really gotten hurt. How'd you get out of it?"

"I don't think I have," Smytty says, studying his hands. "I think… a lot of guys, they refuse and they end up hurt. I think it took my chance at a Cup from me instead."

"Your," Ryan echoes, but he can't force the rest of the words past his lips.

"I was drafted just after the last Cup here," Smytty says, shrugging. "It took twelve years for me to see the finals, and you know how that ended." Ryan nods; he remembers watching, heartbroken for the Canadian team, as Eric Staal skated the Cup around the ice. "I got traded the next year; the Isles got bounced out of the first round. I signed with Colorado; we went out in the second round that year, and things got worse and worse until we ended up last in the Western Conference."

Ryan swallows hard. "Then you had two years with the Kings, right? And two playoff losses."

Smytty nods. "And now I'm back here."

"You're a bad luck charm," Ryan says slowly. "You're — you're one of the most prolific scorers in team history, but no matter how much you manage to score, we're still not going to win as long as you're on the team."

"I'm here to retire," Smytty says gently. "I'm getting old, kid. Hell, I'm already old." He snorts a little. "I don't think they'll offer me another contract, now that I've served out the rest of my time in Edmonton. You'll be rid of me soon enough."

"That's not," Ryan starts, but he can't finish that sentence without lying. He changes tack. "Sorry, Smytty."

"So'm I," Smytty says. "I'm sorry it's getting you, too."

Ryan shakes his head, thinks about the house he grew up in burning to the ground, about his family screaming from somewhere in the smoke. "Yeah," he says. "Thanks."

-0-

Ryan watches as the Kings take the Cup in six, winning and skating it around on home ice in front of their fans. He tries not to think about Smytty and his bad luck and the two more years he'd just signed for in Edmonton. He's not sure he succeeds.

-0-

Management asks if he'll go to the draft. Ryan feels a little weird about it, honestly, but he doesn't actually have anything better to do this early in the offseason, so he agrees to go.

When he gets to his hotel in Pittsburgh and turns his phone back on, there's a text from Taylor waiting. _call me b4 draft!!! gotta talk 2u._

Ryan rolls his eyes as he thumbs to Taylor's contact. The man has a smartphone with full autocorrect capabilities, and what does he teach it to do? Ryan really just wishes he was more surprised.

"Hey," he greets when Taylor picks up. "Here's a fun fact: Pittsburgh is humid as hell in the summer."

"Gross," Taylor says. "Hey, so."

He sounds nervous about whatever it is he's about to say. Ryan frowns. "What's up?"

"It's about, uh," Taylor hedges. "Look, we're drafting Yakupov, right?"

"Probably," Ryan says. He's glad he's already at his hotel; people tend to give him concerned looks when he frowns this hard in public. "It's not like they left the draft plan sitting around in the lobby, Hallsy."

"No, like, it doesn't matter," Taylor says. "Or, you know. It totally matters who we draft, but—"

"Taylor," Ryan interrupts. "Spit it out."

"We were kind of hoping you'd tell him," Taylor says, too fast, like the words are spilling out of him. "Whoever we draft, I mean. Since you're there."

Ryan actually pulls his phone away from his face just so he can stare at it for a moment. "You want me to tell him about the curse," he clarifies, bringing the phone back to his face. "'Hey, welcome to the team, sorry but you're screwed now?'"

"That's a little direct," Taylor says, "but yeah."

"A little direct," Ryan echoes. "Why me? Smytty told me. I thought that was a veteran thing."

"You're there," Taylor says. "You don't have to, Nuge. We just thought…"

"Who's we?" Ryan interrupts.

"Well, me and Ebby," Taylor says. "And Whits, and Horcs." He pauses. "And—"

"—everyone," Ryan sums up. "You all think this is a good idea for some reason."

Taylor sighs, and it crackles over the connection. "We're not forcing your hand. It's a shitty thing to have to tell someone, and everyone knows it, but everyone also agreed that you're the guy for the job."

"Why?" Ryan asks, trying not to whine.

"Because you're you," Taylor says. It's as serious as Ryan has ever heard him sound. "You're a solid dude, Nuge. It's easy to tell when you're telling the truth."

Ryan isn't really sure how to respond to that. It's nothing he hasn't heard before; he's done his best to be someone that people feel comfortable relying on. He likes the idea of maybe earning a letter with the Oilers someday, and this… this is the kind of thing that a guy with a letter would do. He sighs deeply. "Fine. But if he has more questions, I'm giving him someone else's number."

"Not mine," Taylor says immediately. "I mean, like. You can give him mine, but I'm shit at talking about this."

"You don't say," Ryan says dryly. "I was thinking Ebs, and probably also Smytty."

"Okay," Taylor says, and Ryan bites his lip to keep from laughing at how relieved he sounds. "You're gonna kill it, though. Don't even worry about it."

"Too late," Ryan says. He doesn't know Yakupov, doesn't know Murray or Galchenyuk or any of the other top prospects that might be his new teammates come tomorrow. He hopes that whoever it ends up being, they don't laugh him out of their hotel room, or try to call security.

Something occurs to him suddenly. "Wait," he says. "Isn't it spelled into my contract that I can't tell anyone?"

"You can tell other members of the Oilers organisation," Taylor says like he's reciting it. "Once he's drafted, he counts. That's how Smytty was able to tell you."

"Right," Ryan mutters. "Why isn't this, like, a management thing?"

Taylor snorts. "They like to pretend it's not happening," he says flatly. "They're taking care of it, right, so why bother scaring the new guys?"

"That's bullshit," Ryan says, stunned. "What, we're not going to notice the awful fucking curse mark? We're not going to realise something's off when we all have creepy as shit dreams?"

"They spelled it so we can't tell other people," Taylor says. "They didn't spell it so we couldn't talk to each other. Ebs is sure that's why, that they consider it a problem for the players to deal with, not the upper management guys."

"Wow," Ryan says. He's never really given it much thought before, but that's… actually super fucked up.

"That's another reason we're asking you," Taylor says, voice a little too gentle around the edges. "You're there. You're the only player near him. Nobody else on that stage will bother warning him, and he should be prepared before he shows up at camp."

Ryan sighs. He hadn't been prepared even with the warning Smytty had given him, but he can't imagine how much worse it would've been if he'd walked in knowing nothing. "I'll tell him," he promises.

"You're a good guy, Nuge," Taylor says. "Let me know how it goes, eh? And enjoy Pittsburgh while you're there. Get one of those crazy sandwiches Ebby always says will make me puke if I eat the whole thing."

"That's not a great selling point," Ryan points out, but he's smiling a little.

Taylor scoffs. "I could do it," he says. "I could totally do it. I just don't want to fight over a dumb sandwich."

"Very mature of you," Ryan says.

"Oh, fuck off," Taylor says cheerily. "Talk to you later, man."

"Bye," Ryan says, hanging up. He's at a loss for what to do; he sort of wants to get out of his hotel room, to walk around Pittsburgh until the antsy feeling crawling around beneath his skin dissipates, but he also wants to shower the feeling of airplane off and take a nap.

In the end he compromises with himself. He's supposed to do dinner with the team brass in a few hours, but if he goes without working out some of this energy, it'll probably be a bad scene. His conversation with Taylor left kind of a bad taste in his mouth when it comes to management, so Ryan figures if he walks down to Consol and burns off some of the bad feeling, he can at least make dinner bearable. It's worth a try, anyway.

He hadn't been lying to Taylor before; Pittsburgh is a sweaty, humid city in the heat of June. Ryan doesn't even want to think about what the dregs of July must feel like in a place like this. He's glad that he'll only be here for a few days; Burnaby is sounding better and better the longer he walks.

It's not that far from the hotel to Consol, but everything's locked up. Ryan hadn't really been expecting anything different, so he just starts walking in a circle around the arena. He gets a vague sense of unease, but it takes him a few laps to realise what's so off-putting about the building. There's a faint magical aura around it, which isn't surprising in and of itself; most sports arenas have wards that sync to the colors of the teams that play there. Ryan stops and stares at it, watching as the black and gold seem to pulse around the edges of the building, fighting off something that's actively attacking.

"Shit," he breathes out, reaching up. He's not sure what he's going to do, exactly, but someone grabs his wrist before he can even start to cast a spell.

Ryan jerks his hand away and whirls around, his fight or flight instinct kicking into high gear. He can feel his eyes widen a little when Sidney Crosby holds both of his hands up and backs away a little, smiling sheepishly. "Sorry, sorry. I just… it's not a good idea to mess with the wards."

"Something is," Ryan starts, waving up at the arena again.

Crosby nods. "Look, though," he says, pointing back.

Ryan turns to look, and as he does, Crosby whispers something under his breath. A thin chain of golden light shoots from the area where the attack seems to be concentrated, piercing the suddenly-solid green ball of energy, and when it bursts through the other side, the chain wraps itself around tighter and tighter until the ball seems to deflate and disappear.

"Uh," Ryan says intelligently.

Crosby laughs a little. "Okay, so I was showing off a little," he says lightly. "I don't get to cast a lot these days."

Ryan waves at the arena, where the wards are settling back into place. "Shouldn't we, like, tell someone?"

"The ward-keepers already know," Crosby says, shrugging. "And it's not like it was anything big. Just the normal stuff."

"Normal stuff," Ryan echoes faintly. "That's normal here?"

"Every barn has its own thing," Crosby says. "We get a lot of random shit thrown at us, so we ward the hell out of the outside and screen for abnormal spellwork on everyone coming into the building." He rocks back on his feet a little. "Minnesota's got their spellwork rooted down through the ice, through the concrete. Arizona's arena glows like crazy if you're really looking at it; they do something that's strengthened by all the sunshine they get down there."

Ryan blinks. "I've never noticed."

"I make a point to," Crosby says. "It's always better to know, right?"

"Sure, yeah," Ryan says.

Crosby gives him a look. "Edmonton, though. Everything's so warded that I don't even have a guess what's going on up there."

Ryan swallows hard. "Couldn't tell you."

Now Crosby's frowning at him. "I can tell you're—"

"No," Ryan interrupts, shaking his head. "I mean, really literally. Even if I wanted to, which…" He can't tell what face he's making, but Crosby's starting to nod slowly, a look of sympathy on his face. "I can't tell you."

"Are you safe?" Crosby asks quietly.

Ryan's not sure what he was expecting Crosby to say, but it sure wasn't that. "What?"

"Are you safe?" Crosby stresses. "Is it okay up there? I've heard rumors."

"We're," Ryan says, opening his mouth to say… something, he's still not really sure what. Suddenly, though, he feels like his throat is closing up. His hand flies up to his neck, fingers already glowing, ready to fix whatever's going on, but his magic won't push through whatever the spell is.

"What the fuck," Crosby says. His whole body seems to be glowing, the same pure gold as the arena. It makes sense, Ryan thinks dizzily. Nobody's more the heart and soul and embodiment of their team than Crosby is.

He's getting really lightheaded, and whatever has his throat in a vice grip doesn't seem to even notice the magic Ryan's pushing at it. He's got both hands on his neck now, trying to find a place in the spell to grab, but it's slippery-smooth all around. He can't concentrate well enough to find a crack in it, which isn't helping anything.

"Stay still," Crosby snaps, and then there's another thin golden chain, this time springing from Crosby's fingers. It flies towards Ryan, and he feels it melt through his fingers where he's touching the spell that's choking him. He lets his fingers drop, and then Crosby says something that Ryan can't hear, then something else.

There's a loud cracking noise, and Ryan drops, gasping in breath after greedy breath.

Crosby falls to his knees beside Ryan on the sidewalk. His fingers are fluttering over Ryan's neck, and there's a look of pure concentration on his face. "It's gone," he finally says. "There's no trace of whatever it was. I'm not a healer, though, so you should probably get that checked out." His face is grim. "I won't ask any more. I'm sorry; I had no idea."

"Neither did I," Ryan croaks. He's trying to pull his erratic breathing back under control; he feels raw, and there's a headache blooming behind his eyes. "Fuck."

"Can you stand?" Crosby asks. "I can drive you back to wherever you're staying." He frowns. "Or a hospital."

"No," Ryan says instantly. He'd known he wouldn't be able to talk about it. He hadn't known how bad it would be, sure, but it's something to take up with management, not anything he needs to get a hospital involved with. "We've got someone from medical along with us. I'll check in when we get back."

Crosby nods slowly. "Promise me," he says sternly as he gets to his feet.

Ryan pushes himself up until he's sitting, and then he manages to raise an eyebrow at Crosby. "I already have a dad. And also Jordan Eberle."

It makes Crosby snort, but he shakes his head and closes his fist. "Promise," he says, and when he opens his fist there's a small ball of glowing golden light there.

Ryan sighs and gets to his feet. Trust Sidney Crosby to use a playground promise charm in a serious situation. "I will," he says. "Trust me, my head feels like it's going to explode. I'll go for a relief-of-pain, if nothing else." He takes Crosby's hand anyway, watching as the golden light races like lightning up his arm to settle around his shoulder.

"Thanks," Crosby says, smiling as he pulls his hand back. "And just so you know, Nuge, if there's anything I can do, all you have to do is call." He holds his hand up when Ryan opens his mouth to protest. "I'm not asking. I just wanted to let you know."

"Well, thanks, I guess," Ryan says, smiling weakly. "I'll keep that in mind."

"You won't," Crosby says, his smile going a little sad around the edges. "But that's okay. I won't hold it against you."

The drive back to the hotel is short; Ryan's still glad he didn't try to walk it, though, because he's pretty sure he'd have to stop and take breaks every few feet. He's definitely not going out for dinner with management, and as soon as Aly opens her hotel room door, Ryan knows she'll get him off the hook.

"What the hell happened to you?" she asks, hands glowing pale orange as she settles her fingertips on his collarbone. Coolness seeps beneath his skin, and Ryan sighs as the ache in his throat recedes a little. "You got spelled. Who…"

"I tried to answer a question I shouldn't have," Ryan cuts in, and Aly's gaze switches from concerned to murderous in the blink of an eye.

"I'm going to kill them," she says venomously. "I told them to change that spellwork. Hang on."

She digs around in one of her bags for something, and after a moment, she pulls out a small pill bottle and shakes one into her hand. It's pretty benign-looking, but as soon as she dumps it into Ryan's palm, he gasps. It's glowing Oilers colors, the blue and orange swirling across the surface of the capsule.

"Go back to your room, get changed, and get in bed," Aly says, closing his fingers around the pill. "Then take that and go to sleep. You'll be fine in the morning."

"Thank you," he says gratefully.

Aly shakes her head. "Don't thank me yet," she says grimly. "I'm going to go have some words with some of the management guys. If I can get them to change their minds, _then_ you can thank me."

Ryan grins at her. "I'm glad you're on our side."

"Someone's gotta keep all of you in one piece," she says, smiling back at him and pointing to the door. "Change, bed, pill, sleep. You'll be totally fine when you wake up."

"Will do," he promises, getting up and heading for his room. As he walks, he pulls out his phone and considers who to text. It takes him a moment to remember that Whits had played in Pittsburgh, but a quick text asking for Crosby's contact information yields him both a warning that Crosby takes forever to text back on his ancient flip phone and a number.

 _This is Nuge. Got checked out, I'll be fine_ , he texts as he lets himself into his room.

He sets his phone and the pill on his bedstand as he changes and gets a glass of water. His phone lights up as he's climbing into bed. _Good. Stay safe. Let me know if there's anything I can do._

Ryan smiles and plugs his phone in. It's a nice thought, at least, to know Crosby would help if he could.

He grabs the pill, managing not to be shocked by the color show when he touches it, and pops it into his mouth before taking a sip of water. He's instantly exhausted, which is probably why Aly told him to get in bed first. He's glad for it as he scoots down under the sheets and closes his eyes.

He's asleep before he feels the sheets settle around him.

-0-

Ryan wakes up far later than he's used to, feeling more refreshed than he has in a really long time. He luxuriates in the feeling for a moment, stretching and rolling his shoulders. His neck isn't sore at all; Ryan would love to know what that pill was, exactly, but he knows better than to ask. Healers tend to be pretty proprietary about that sort of thing.

He gets dressed in his workout clothes; there's a gym in the hotel, and while it's not anywhere close to enough to keep him in shape long-term, it's at least enough for a run on the treadmill. He grabs his phone and his headphones and sets off to get some exercise in.

The gym is deserted at midday; Ryan gets the treadmill going and starts his run. Running like this is mindless work by this point, which is nice. He doesn't have to think about his breathing, or how his feet are placed, or if he'll need to turn or jump or do anything other than run in a straight line. It gives him time to think.

He definitely needs to check in with Aly this morning. He's a little surprised she hadn't woken him up, honestly; the trainers usually send them home with a roommate when they dole out the stronger stuff, but since Ryan's in a room of his own, he'd kind of figured she'd stop in. It'd be good to get checked out again, just to make sure there aren't any lingering aftereffects of the spell, and he kind of wants to know if she'd made any headway in talking to management about the specifics of the no-talking spellwork in his contract.

Part of him wants to get in touch with a few of his teammates; he very much doubts that people know the actual consequences of trying to talk about the curse. He's sure that someone would have mentioned magical strangulation to him if they'd known. That probably wouldn't have even slipped Taylor's mind, and if it somehow had, Jordan would have told him.

Mind made up, Ryan slows his pace and walks another half mile before turning the treadmill off. He needs a shower, but he passes Aly's room on his way to his own, and she's definitely seen way worse in her time with the Oilers than one sweaty hockey player. She doesn't answer her door, though, so Ryan heads back to his own room to clean up.

He sits on his bed once he's showered and changed, fiddling with his phone. He's definitely going to call Jordan, but he's not even sure how to start that particular conversation. It doesn't help that he's nervous, either; he's talked to teammates about the curse before, sure, and it's only specified in his contract that he can't talk to outsiders. Yesterday looms large in his memory, though, and Ryan rubs absently at his throat as he steels himself to dial

Just as he's about to call, there's a knock at his door. Ryan definitely doesn't toss his phone to the bed in relief as he gets up to answer it. He's sort of expecting Aly, but when he opens the door, Ryan blinks. "Coach?"

Coach Buchberger gives him a sallow sort of smile. "Hey, Nuge. Do you have a minute?"

Ryan steps back and gestures inside. "Uh, sure. Is everything okay?"

Coach steps inside and shuts the door behind him. He takes the time to slide the bolt and lock the little chain. Ryan would definitely be lying if he said he wasn't getting more nervous just watching. Finally, Coach turns to survey him, sighing. "You okay, kid?"

"Uh," Ryan says, blinking. "Yes?"

Coach crosses his arms over his chest and gives Ryan the look he's privately dubbed _Hallsy, stop fucking around_. "Alyson Brenniss gave us all what-for last night because you got too close to the curse. I'm asking again: are you okay?"

Ryan's not sure if he wants to send Aly a muffin basket for actually going through with it or beg her to never to talk to management on his behalf again. "I'm okay, Coach. Someone asked me about it, and I tried to get out of answering the question, but I guess the no-talking spellwork got tripped. I, uh." He rubs the back of his neck a little. "I didn't know what was going on, and I couldn't get it to stop. I'm lucky the other person was a caster, or…"

Coach sighs and drops his arms. "I told them," he mutters. "I'm sorry, kid. I should've made them listen."

"It's… okay?" Ryan tries. "Sorry, Coach. I'm not sure what you're talking about."

"All the spellwork, it's the same for everyone," Coach says, waving his hand. "And they don't moderate it to be effective for an average-sized player. It's all keyed up so it'll cover the biggest guys in the league, and then someone like you gets caught for something that was on the fringe of even being against their dumbass rules anyway, and…"

Ryan feels a little queasy. "So I got hit with the full force because management thought it'd be fine to not tailor the spellwork?" He's trying hard not to be furious, but it's kind of hard. It's one of the basics they teach you when you start the intermediate spellwork courses — all spells work on all people, but they have to be tailored to the individual. It's not even that much extra work, usually. Ryan can see how it'd be a little more complex with something like the spellwork needed here, but he can still think of at least three things off the top of his head that probably would've prevented the scene yesterday.

"It's almost criminal anyway," Coach says, frown lines heavy on his face. "Why shouldn't you be able to talk about it? But they've all got their minds set up." He shakes his head, then smiles a little. "Ms. Brenniss threatened to break her contract and spill to the media if they didn't revise all the spellwork, and she's given them a deadline. Keep your head down for the rest of the summer, Nuge. It should all be straightened out by the time camp rolls around."

Ryan's definitely going with the muffin basket. Aly deserves it. "I'm supposed to tell whoever we draft," he says, hand going to his throat again. "Will I be able to, or…"

Coach nods. "Once he's got that jersey on, he's an Oiler, far as the spell is concerned." He sighs, long and heavy. "I'm glad I got out before they decided on that. I'm just sorry that by the time I came back, it was too late to talk 'em out of it."

"Thanks for trying," Ryan offers. He's not sure what else to say, but he is glad to know that there are a few people in the organisation who don't think it's a good idea to sort-of curse the players on top of the actual curse on the rink.

"I'm gonna keep trying," Coach mutters. "They have to listen eventually."

Privately, Ryan disagrees, but Coach Buchburger is way more stubborn and also in a far better position to be vocally angry about things. "Well, thanks for that, too," he says.

Coach finally cracks a smile. "You're really okay, then? Ms. Brenniss made it sound like you were on death's doorstep."

"I might have been," Ryan says, glancing away. "If I had been with someone who didn't know what they were doing, I'm not sure I would've made it. I couldn't breathe at all."

"Fuck," Coach bites out. "Well, keep your trap shut until you hear otherwise. We'll get them to change it if I have to hire a breaker for every last one of you myself."

Ryan smiles slightly. "Talk to Ebs. He's better than he thinks he is."

"I'll keep that in mind," Coach says. "Take the afternoon off, get some rest in. Make sure you're ready to be up on that stage when we make our pick tonight."

"Any clues for me?" Ryan asks. "So I can start preparing my speech?"

Coach snorts. "Let's just say you're not gonna be shocked by what happens when we make our pick, and leave it at that."

Ryan nods. "Got it."

"Rest," Coach repeats sternly as he walks toward the door. "And for the love of god, don't talk to anyone else who's not on the team about the curse."

"Trust me, I won't," Ryan says. It's definitely not an experience that bears repeating.

-0-

This is the third draft in a row that Ryan's been to, and each one has been radically different. The first time had been mostly a fact-finding mission; he'd watched as Taylor and Tyler Seguin and Erik Gudbranson had gone, studied their reactions and, almost more importantly, the reactions of the guys who were still in the crowd. It's always good to have an idea about what you're going to be facing, and at that point, Ryan was just hoping he'd be able to go somewhere in the top five.

His memories of his own draft are bright and clear. He remembers everything leading up to it, every team he'd met with, almost every hand he'd shaken. The Oilers hadn't said anything outright, given the nature of the draft, but Ryan had been as certain as he could be going into the draft that he'd be taken first. It had seemed like a dream come true, and for those first few days until he'd gotten home, it really had been.

This year is a whole different kind of energetic. He's on the draft floor, which is new and interesting; he can't hear a whole lot of what's going on, which is honestly fine by him. Ryan's fully aware that he's here more as a figurehead than anything else, so he does his best to just sit where he's told and keep out of everyone's way.

A few of the reporters wandering around had tried to get out of him who the first overall pick would be; none of them had seemed all that disappointed when Ryan gave them his best media smile and just replied that he knew it would be a good player. Ryan's as sure as he can be that it'll be Yakupov, but he's even more sure that he can't actually trust the management group at this point.

There's really no moment of a hush falling over the crowd; there's the usual noise of that many people packed into an arena, all of them buzzing and talking and leaking excitement pretty much everywhere. Bettman walks onto the stage and is, predictably, booed; he reacts with his usual bluster, and Ryan does his best to ignore him in favor of calming the sudden butterflies in his stomach. He might actually be more nervous about having to tell someone about the curse than he was before his own draft.

Bettman wraps his speech up by announcing that the Oilers are on the clock, and then it's quiet. Quieter than it had been, anyway.

Ryan's not sure what all the discussion is at this point; there aren't any surprises left, no last-minute revelations, no argument for or against a certain player that hasn't yet been made. This is something he recalls from his own draft, too. Why drag it out?

As he's wondering about it, though, someone must give some sort of signal, because everyone who's going up to the stage stands. Ryan walks with them, standing where he's told to stand, and pastes a smile on his face as the Oilers draft Nail Yakupov.

He looks thrilled as he walks onto the stage, and Ryan's really, truly happy for him; he's probably a perfectly nice guy, and Ryan's looking forward to playing with him, but he can't help but wish Yakupov had gone somewhere else, just for his own sake. He'd feel that way about whoever they drafted, though, so it's truly a futile thought.

Yakupov walks down the line, shaking hands, and when he's done, he pulls the Oilers jersey over his head for the photos. Ryan's almost expecting a shower of sparks, maybe orange and blue, to signify _he's an Oiler now_ or something; he hadn't had anything like that happen at his own draft, of course, but it would've been nice to get a little visual confirmation.

Still, he knows what he has to do, so Ryan sticks close to Yakupov as they whisk him backstage for the whirlwind of signings and photos and ridiculous poses with hockey sticks. Everyone smiles at him, more or less, so he just hangs out while Yakupov goes through his stuff, waiting for his opportunity.

"Hey," he says, reaching out to snag Yakupov's sleeve as he finishes with the stack of hockey cards they'd set in front of him to sign. His handler hasn't come back to rush him along yet, so Ryan actually might have a minute. "Can we talk? There's something I need to tell you."

Yakupov nods, smile still bright on his face, but it's replaced by a frown when he peers up at Ryan. "What is wrong?"

Ryan sighs, looking around. There's nobody really in earshot, so he leans in. "It's about Edmonton."

-0-

The offseason is rough.

It's hard when you don't make the playoffs; the summer always seems to warp and stretch out to longer than it can possibly be when there's no hockey to be played. It doesn't help that Ryan keeps hearing rumors about a lockout, and that as the summer drags on, everyone's tone of voice gets grimmer and grimmer. He's mostly resigned to it by the time September rolls around, and he honestly does count himself lucky that he's being sent to the AHL rather than having to find a place to play in Europe.

"At least we're here together," Jordan says, trying to smile at Ryan as they settle into their new apartment in Oklahoma City.

Ryan manages to bite back most of his grin. "Hallsy will be here soon," he reminds Jordan. "You know the second he's cleared to play, he'll be down here with us."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Jordan says longsufferingly, but he's grinning now. "What if he gives the trainers the puppy-dog eyes, and they clear him too early?"

"I hate to be the one to tell you this, Jordan," Ryan says solemnly, "but the puppy-dog eyes only work on you and on his mom."

Jordan laughs, which is what Ryan was going for, so he grins. "You're the worst," he says, but Ryan's sure he doesn't mean it.

It's almost ridiculous, the difference between this season and last; they're winning, sure, and that's a lot better, but they're also healthy. Ryan takes a freak stick to the face in a game, but gets to keep all of his teeth; Taylor returns in early November and doesn't miss a stride. They're all healthy, and Ryan can't help but notice it.

It's also hard to miss how happy Taylor and Jordan are to be reunited. The first week Taylor's in Oklahoma City, Ryan spends as much time as he can out of the apartment; he hasn't seen anything he'd rather not, but giving them a little space seems like the better part of keeping it that way. It's easy to see the change in Jordan's mood, and it spills over to the general mood in the apartment; by the time Ryan deems it safe to return, he feels like the apartment has less of a sad raincloud over it than it had the first month of the season.

Ryan's a little surprised by how discreet they are, if he's being honest with himself. It's not that they keep it totally hidden, but Ryan remembers how he'd been with Chase when they'd been around someone who knew. He winces a little when he thinks about it, actually; they'd absolutely been _those people_. What's past is past, Ryan thinks, and marvels again at how at ease Taylor and Jordan are with each other: holding hands when they're relaxing on the sofa together, one of them tucked into the other's side; little absentminded gestures of affection; the way they talk about the future, things they want to do when they get back to Edmonton, the absolute surety that they'll do all of those things with each other. It's a little surprising, but only because Ryan hadn't really grasped how settled Jordan and Taylor are in their relationship. It takes a little time for him to reconcile how goofy Taylor can be with how much he cares for Jordan, and how serious Jordan can get with how he lights up around Taylor.

By the time the lockout ends and they get called back up to Edmonton, though, Ryan can't remember how he ever thought Jordan and Taylor were just really good friends. They're so entwined in each other's lives, and they don't have anything resembling personal space with each other. They're comfortable and happy, and Ryan envies them a little. Taylor's barely a year and a half older than Ryan is, but Ryan can't help but think about how much more together Taylor's life is than Ryan's own. Sure, Taylor can't cook anything that has more steps than unwrapping a pre-made meal and putting it in the oven, but he's got plans for the future that go past the end of the coming season. Ryan's lost count of the number of times he's heard one of them start a conversation with _after we retire_ , and it's always with the unspoken surety that it'll be together.

For now, though, there's hockey. There's NHL hockey again, and Ryan's almost bouncing in his seat on the flight up to Edmonton. Jordan is definitely laughing at him, but without making any noise, because Taylor is sacked out on his shoulder. "It's just hockey," Jordan says quietly.

Ryan flips him off with both hands, because why not. Jordan just smiles wider.

The season is cramped, rushed, brutal; they're trying to squeeze a lot of hockey into four months, and Ryan barely has time to think past _eat, sleep, play_. They win more than they lose in January, and Ryan's looking forward to really pushing himself. Just because the season is short doesn't mean he can slack off.

They're playing against the Stars in early February when Ryan feels something in his shoulder give. It's not bad, not right away, but it's persistent; Ryan sees Smytty looking at him when he rubs at it on the bench, and Ryan takes a deep breath and nods. He tells the trainers, and Aly pulls him from the game. "As a precaution," she says, prodding at his shoulder. "We don't want to become known as the team with the shoulder problems."

"I thought that was every hockey team," Ryan tries to joke, and Aly rolls her eyes.

"You and I both know that us being _the team with the shoulder problems_ is a little different than it being San Jose," she says, leaning over to dig an ice pack out of the freezer. "Rest it, ice it. We'll take another look tomorrow, but if it looks okay, you can probably play the next game."

"I'll be careful," Ryan says, holding the ice in place while she grabs the tape and adjusts his arm placement. It's quick work, and then Aly pats him on his good shoulder before heading back out.

Ryan sighs and puts his head back against the wall. At least it's not a concussion, he tries to reason with himself. And it's not the same tearing, searing pain he'd felt last season when he'd hurt his shoulder. It's just a little tweak, and he'll be back on the ice in no time.

There's a knocking at the door, and Ryan swivels his head towards it. "Come in," he calls.

He's expecting Jordan or Taylor, but to his surprise, it's Nail. He looks spooked, Ryan thinks, glancing from Ryan's face to his shoulder and back again. "Are you okay?" he asks in a rush.

"I'm okay," Ryan assures him. They haven't really spoken much since Ryan dropped the curse bombshell on him at the draft; thanks to the lockout, they've only had a month to get to know each other, and most of that has been filled with the grind of the season. "Aly said I might be back next game. It's not serious."

Nail takes a deep breath and nods. "I'm glad," he says, leaning against the wall. "I thought it might be…"

Ryan doesn't need him to finish the sentence to know. "It's not the curse," he says. He tries not to think about it too much, but he knows this isn't enough. This won't compensate for him not giving the curse what it wants from him. "That's… it'll be more."

That makes Nail shudder a little. "I still don't understand," he says, frowning. "Why can they not get rid of it?"

It bothers Ryan, too, when he can't keep himself from thinking about it. He does his best not to study it; thinking about the pulsing, living magic at centre ice makes him not want to skate out there, and it's something he can't afford to have in the back of his head. When the thought trips him up, though, he can't help but wonder the same thing: why haven't they been able to break the curse yet?

"I don't know," Ryan says, shrugging his good shoulder. "They're trying."

There's no doubting that; there are teams of casters and breakers in Rexall every day. They hadn't had an offseason, but the curse is still firmly in place. It's not Ryan's place to think about it or try to break it, but he always feels like there's something about the way the curse looks that they're missing, something that, if he could just pin it down, would break the whole thing wide open. It always seems to slip away from him, though, so he figures it's just his mind playing tricks on him and does his best to ignore it.

"They should try harder," Nail mutters. "Give 110%. Always more to give."

It startles a laugh out of Ryan, and Nail cracks a smile. "We'll have Coach give them a speech," he suggests. "Maybe that'll get them going."

"It can't hurt," Nail agrees. He shifts in his chair, and his eyes are drawn back to Ryan's shoulder. He seems to be hesitating to ask something, so Ryan just waits. He'd push with some of the other guys, but he doesn't want to pressure Nail into spilling whatever's in his head. Finally, Nail sighs. "You have had a dream, yes?"

"Yeah," Ryan agrees. His good hand clenches a little around the edge of the exam table, and Ryan watches as Nail's focus zooms in on that. "I'm not giving it what it wants. You don't have to."

"That's what you said at the draft," Nail says quietly. "I am afraid. What could it ask, and what could it take?"

"Anything," Ryan says swallowing a little. "For me… it's kind of hard to describe." It doesn't help that he's never actually told anyone what was in his dream; his stomach turns every time he thinks about it, and even now, nearly a year later, he can remember everything in vivid detail. "There was fire. Everything was burning, and it was my fault, and my family…"

Nail mumbles something in Russian. Ryan doesn't have any idea what he actually said, but he definitely agrees with the sentiment behind it. "So you wait," Nail finally says in English.

"So I wait," Ryan agrees, leaning his head back again. "There's not much else I can do."

"It looks," Nail starts, then stops. Ryan waits, but he doesn't go on.

"The curse mark?" Ryan says finally, and Nail nods.

"It looks strange," he says. "Not like anything I am used to."

"Me either," Ryan agrees.

Nail looks at him sharply. "I thought it was just strong North American magic. It all looks strange to me."

Ryan hasn't ever talked to Nail about his magic; he's known guys from Russia and Europe before, has played alongside them, but for some reason it's never really come up that the North American way of doing magic is markedly different from the way they do it in a lot of the rest of the world. "How is it strange?" he asks cautiously.

"There is no…" Nail frowns. "Magic in Russia, everyone is a caster and a breaker, not like it is here. Everything is more together, yes?"

Ryan nods. "That makes sense."

"Even here," Nail continues, making a circle with his hand. A bright blue burst of light follows his fingers and hangs in the air; Ryan blinks a little, startled. "You cast something, Ebs breaks it, but your spell leaves space for him to break." He slashes his hand down, and the blue circle shatters, dissipates. "There is no breaking point in the curse mark. I cannot find it."

"That's…" Ryan isn't sure how to go on with that sentence. What Nail is saying makes sense; he'd dropped his caster training just as they were getting into how to make break holes smaller or larger depending on the spell's use, but he does know the general concept. He remembers scrabbling at his own throat in Pittsburgh, fingers desperately clawing for a place to push his own magic through. He shivers.

"I don't like it," Nail says plaintively, and Ryan has to nod. There's really no arguing with that.

"They're working on it," Ryan offers again, but he knows it sounds weak. He's starting to believe they're never going to break it.

-0-

By the time April rolls around, Ryan feels tense every time he steps onto the ice. His shoulder had healed, but it doesn't feel great; he'd gotten the flu in March, but that wasn't enough, either. He's noticing the curse mark at centre ice more and more, and he feels like there's a time bomb hanging over his head. He's not looking forward to it happening, but he's at a point where he'd rather get it over with.

And then the Ducks roll into town.

The game goes like every game against the Ducks goes: hard, fast, physical. It's nothing Ryan wasn't expecting, but the longer he plays, the worse the ache in his shoulder gets. He does his best to ignore it, but every time he brushes against someone, every time he winds up to take a shot, every time he has to pick up his stick and hustle down the ice, he knows.

Aly looks at him while he's stripped down during intermission and shakes her head. "You know what I'm going to say."

"It's not that bad," Ryan says stubbornly. It is; he knows it is. He also doesn't want it to be, and he's running on enough adrenaline right now that he can ignore it for at least the rest of the game.

"Ryan," she says gently. Her fingers brush against the fabric of his undershirt and there's a cool wash of relief; as soon as she moves away, the pain flares, too bright to ignore.

He hangs his head. "Fine," he mutters. "Fine."

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry," she says.

He knows she is. That doesn't change the fact that this — this is going to be his season. This is going to be surgery. This is the curse.

-0-

"Nuge," Nail says. He's not asking this time; Ryan's not sure if Aly said something, or if his face is giving something away, but Nail sounds sympathetic, mostly. "I'm sorry."

"Me too," Ryan mutters. Aly had given him something for the pain as well as an order to get an MRI on his shoulder; he's pretty sure whatever turns up will be the end of his season. "Did we win, at least?"

Nail grimaces. "Not exactly."

Ryan snorts. Of course they hadn't.

He's spared from having to think of something to say by the arrival of Taylor and Jordan. They look at him, then each other, then back at him; it'd be funny, if Ryan wasn't still feeling the edges of the pain in his shoulder around the relief-of-pain spell. Jordan takes a step towards him. "It's that bad," he says, not reaching out.

"Yeah," Ryan says, closing his eyes. "Looks like I'm gonna get a cool shoulder scar to match Hallsy's. Just what I always wanted."

"I make it look badass, though," Taylor says, aiming for bright but falling short. Ryan opens his eyes just so he can turn his head and roll them at Taylor.

Jordan walks the rest of the way over to the exam table. "You're sure?"

"Pretty sure," Ryan admits. "I mean… it's the curse. It's gonna be my season, and my shoulder's been bothering me, so it makes sense."

"It'll probably fuck up the start of next season, too," Taylor pipes up. "I mean, not to be a downer or anything, but it threw mine off."

Jordan elbows him hard in the ribs, and honestly, thank the hockey gods for Jordan Eberle. "Sorry, Nuge," he says. "That really blows."

"At least it's over with," Ryan says. "At least I'm not waiting anymore."

"True," Taylor says. "That sucked hardcore. Not more than the actual injury, but having to wait wasn't fun at all."

"Now that it has you," Jordan starts, then trails off. When Ryan looks over, he's very carefully studying something on the floor, and Taylor's looking straight at Ryan.

"Now that it has you," Nail echoes, and Ryan watches Taylor and Jordan's eyes snap to Nail before Ryan looks over, too. Nail's face is a little gray around the edges, and it clicks in Ryan's head as Nail opens his mouth to continue. "It will find someone else."

Ryan wants to reach out, to offer some kind of reassurance, but he can't. Nail's right, and judging by the way his hands have curled into fists, he knows that it'll probably be him. There's no way to know, of course; the curse might wait, or it might go for someone else. It probably won't, but there's no real way to know.

"Sorry," Ryan says, closing his eyes again. "This whole thing sucks."

"Amen," Jordan says, no humor in his voice. "It'd be nice if they just broke the damn curse already."

"May it be so," Nail says, and Ryan couldn't agree more.

-0-

It doesn't take long.

Ryan is officially ruled out for the season before he leaves the arena on Sunday night, and he's immediately scheduled for surgery on Tuesday. He's resting at home on Monday when there's a knock at his door, and when he opens it, Nail is standing there. He looks like he hasn't slept at all. "I dreamed," he says, sounding terrified.

"Come on, come in," Ryan says, opening the door wider and backing up so Nail can enter.

"It was," Nail starts before Ryan can even get the door closed. "I don't know what to do. I don't know what to _do_."

"Breathe," Ryan says sharply.

Nail looks startled for a moment, but he drags in a deep breath before letting it out slowly. His hands are trembling at his sides. "I can't," he says.

Ryan nods towards his kitchen. "Come in and sit down. We'll figure it out, okay? Just breathe, Nail."

They walk into the kitchen and Ryan gestures towards the table. Nail sits immediately, and Ryan tasks himself with getting two glasses off of the counter and filling them with water. He's glad he'd had the foresight to ask Jordan to put a bunch of his dishes on his counter; he's really not up for reaching right now.

Nail doesn't look any better when Ryan puts the water in front of him, but he does immediately curl his fingers around the glass. "I don't know what to do," he says again.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Ryan asks carefully.

Nail shakes his head, so Ryan nods and sits with his own glass. He can just sit and be quiet, if that's what Nail needs right now.

It's not even a minute before Nail speaks. "It wants me to give it everything," he blurts out. "I dreamed of skating. Injury after injury, bleeding onto the ice." He takes a shaky breath. "I bled and I bled, and the ice was always fresh. It took, it took my teeth, laughed when I slammed into the posts. My family, my friends, they all watched, and then they left, and all I did was hurt and hurt."

Ryan takes a sip of his water for something to do more than anything else. He has no idea what to say; his own dream had been awful, but this... 

"What will it take?" Nail whispers. "It wants too much already. What will it take from me in return?"

That's what Ryan was trying not to wonder, if he's being honest with himself. His own dream had been terrifying, but it hadn't been about him getting hurt. The decision to trade his own health for what the dream had wanted hadn't ever really been a decision; it had been a given. He's sure that Taylor and Jordan think the same way about their own dreams and injuries. This is different, though. The curse is _asking_ for injuries; it's asking for a blood sacrifice. If that's what it already wants, what will it take in return?

Ryan shivers a little and tries not to let it show. He thinks about Smytty, about a career that will span twenty seasons by the time he retires with no Cup to show for it. He's not sure if he should offer that up; he's not sure it would be any consolation.

"What if," Nail says, barely above a whisper. "What if I just… left? I could go back to the KHL. Nizhnekamsk would be happy to have me."

It's honestly not a terrible solution. Ryan would hate to lose Nail, as a person and as a teammate, but the simple act of not being in Edmonton would probably save him from whatever the curse's retaliation would be. It feels a little too close to giving up for Ryan's tastes, but he's already given what was asked of him. He can't make that decision for anyone else.

"I'm not saying that's a terrible idea," Ryan finally says. "It might be a really great idea, to be honest, but before you go through that, let's get some other people involved, okay?" He hesitates a little. "I know a few guys who have gone through this. I can make some phone calls."

"I don't want to leave," Nail says, looking straight at Ryan. "If there is another way, I want that." He takes a deep breath. "Who are you going to call?"

-0-

An hour later, Ryan is wishing he'd suggested holding this get-together elsewhere. His place is a decent size when it's just him and one or two of the guys, but now he's trying to cram five hockey players into his living room, and it's going kind of poorly. He doesn't have enough chairs, when it comes down to it, and he's about to give up and just sit on the floor when Taylor rolls his eyes and grabs Jordan's hand, tugging until Jordan snorts and climbs into his lap. Taylor gives Ryan what's probably supposed to be a winning smile, but it loses a lot of its effectiveness when Ryan can only see half of it over Jordan's shoulder, and Jordan's trying to keep himself from smiling while he rolls his eyes.

"Well," Smytty says from his safe perch on the recliner. "Now that we've got seating figured out."

"You're all the worst," Ryan says longsufferingly, but he sits in the free space on the sofa anyway. "So. Nail had a really terrifying dream, and we need to figure out what to do about it."

"I will go back to Russia," Nail says solemnly. "I want to stay, but I will not let it kill me." His voice is fairly level, and Ryan gives him a lot of credit. He's still reeling from what Nail had said, so he can't imagine what Nail's feeling.

"Let's hear it first," Smytty says gently.

Nail takes a shuddering breath and recounts the dream in horrifying detail. It's one of those things that Ryan knows he won't be able to forget for a long time, but when he thinks about his own dream, the crystal clarity that he can still has when he thinks about the details… he shivers again. Nail's going to be stuck with the dream for a long, long time, even if they do manage to get him out of it.

Jordan's the first one to speak when Nail finishes. "Wow."

Nail smiles thinly. "It stays at Rexall, yes? So if I go back to Nizhnekamsk…"

"That might get you out of it," Smytty agrees. "Here's what I think, though. Hallsy and Ebs and Nuge, it asked all of them for something… it wasn't an injury. It asked for something else." They all nod, and Smytty goes on. "Me and you, Yak, it's different. They asked us for injuries."

"It wanted you…" Nail starts, but Smytty shakes his head.

"My brother played," he says. "Not long, not much, but the curse… it wanted me to hurt him while we were playing each other."

That makes Nail start muttering in Russian again, and his fingers dig into the padding on the side of the sofa. "Will it make me do that? Hurt my parents, my sister?"

"It already named its price," Smytty says firmly. "It won't change its terms." He hesitates a little. "It didn't injure me, though. It… took something."

"It stole something?" Taylor says, frowning. "How does that even work?"

"Not something," Smytty says, sighing. "How close have I been to a Cup, how many times have I made the playoffs?"

"A lot," Jordan says slowly. "But you've only been to the Finals once."

Smytty nods. "I thought that leaving Edmonton might give you the chance. I thought it was just me, but…"

"It's at least a little bit you," Taylor says, eyes wide. "This team has the world's worst luck anyway, because of the curse, but it's you, too. As soon as you left the Kings, they won the Cup."

Smytty spreads his hands in front of him. "No injuries. I have my health, but I don't have a Cup, and I never will."

There's a heavy silence in the room for a moment before Jordan gives a weak chuckle. "Well, thanks for letting us know what next year will be like, I guess."

It works, at least a little. Taylor laughs and rests his head against Jordan's shoulder; Smytty grins a little and shakes his head. Ryan sneaks a look at Nail, who's staring a little vacantly at the blank TV screen.

"I will leave," he says bleakly. "I cannot — that is not something I can face."

"Trust me, I get that," Smytty says gently. "But that's not a guarantee, kiddo. I'm just saying that you don't have to worry about it being a physical kind of thing. It could be something else entirely."

"That's really not comforting," Taylor points out.

Smytty shrugs. "It's not a perfect solution."

"Breaking the curse would be the perfect solution," Ryan interjects. "But we have no idea how to _do_ that."

"They'll figure it out," Smytty says with the world-weary patience of a man who has repeated something so many times that it has lost all meaning to him. "They have to."

"I mean, they're talking about building a new arena in a few years," Taylor says. "If nothing else, probably we'll be safe once we move." He pauses. "Right?"

Ryan leans back a little, trying to actively think about the curse for the first time in a long time. He turns its shape over in his head, its general feeling, the way it doesn't quite seem settled into Rexall. "I don't know," he says finally. "Normally I'd say that was true, but this…"

Jordan's already nodding. "I feel like it would just move," he says bleakly. "It's too… transient. Or something."

"This is not how curses work," Nail says plaintively. "They are cast, they stay where they are cast."

It makes a thought flash through Ryan's mind, but it's gone before he can chase it down. He shrugs instead of replying. "Welcome to Rexall," he says tiredly. "Nothing's normal here."

"Don't do anything drastic," Jordan says, turning to Nail. "We'll figure something out, okay? It won't do anything to you before the end of the season. We'll have all summer to figure something out. Give it a little time, Yak."

Nail nods slowly. "I will stay," he says. "Through the summer. If it still wants what it wants next season…"

He doesn't complete his sentence. He doesn't have to.

-0-

Ryan's summer is strange. He spends the first part of it recovering from his surgery and doing a lot of physical therapy; he wants to be ready as soon as he can, so he pushes himself to the limit every chance he gets. He doesn't want to overdo it, but he doesn't want to waste any time, either.

He has a lot of down time, though, which he spends at the library. He spends most of it in the magical theory section, trying to find a new way to look at the curse, something that will let him find the crack in it and unravel it from there. No matter how many books he looks through, how many spell diagrams and curse marks be pores over and retraces with his fingers, nothing looks even remotely familiar. He actually asks the librarian to request a few books from one of the nearby libraries, smiling and pretending he's doing graduate-level work on casting when she asks why he needs them. He's not going to even step close to the truth, even if he's been assured multiple times that what happened with Crosby won't happen again, that Aly's threats about going public had been taken seriously and if he talks about the curse now, he'll find himself reciting the iTunes terms and conditions instead of slowly dying of oxygen deprivation.

All his research gets him is a new appreciation for people who actually _do_ get graduate-level degrees in casting, though. It's halfway through July before he finally admits defeat: there's nothing in any of the spell research books that will help them with this particular curse.

Internet research doesn't lend a hand, either. Ryan doesn't exactly want to be put on any sort of watch lists by Googling "weird curses," so that avenue is out, and searching for things like "uncommon spells" or "strange casting patterns" gets him a whole lot of nothing. He spends an entire afternoon trying to describe the weird way the curse mark sits against the ice, how it seems to pulse and shimmer and move, but it doesn't get him anything.

He sort of feels like that should be a clue, but he has no idea what that clue is supposed to be telling him.

August brings a new training routine; he's hoping to be back for the start of the season, so he's glad to find that he's nearly back to his normal offseason routine. He has less free time now, but he spends all of it trying to look into different methods of curse-breaking. It's not his forte by any stretch of the imagination: he's good at hockey, he's good at casting, he's decent at golf and remembering to put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher and grilling steaks, and he's okay at ironing. Breaking is somewhere below all of that.

It's not that he can't do it; magic doesn't really work that way. Technically, anyone who can cast a spell can also break a spell, but most North American schools don't operate that way. Work to your strengths, is what Ryan's teachers always said. There are casters and there are breakers, and whichever skill you show aptitude for is what you get trained in, with the bare minimum of training in the other discipline. Ryan's now wishing that he knew more about breaking, that he had the understanding of both sides of the coin that Nail had been talking about. It's slow, frustrating work when he doesn't understand most of the underlying concepts.

Ryan tries forwarding some of his thoughts to Jordan, but Jordan runs into pretty much the same problem; he gets the breaking parts, but when Ryan tries to introduce some of his thoughts about things that could work to counteract the curse itself, Jordan has a tough time following. Even with both of them trying to explain what they're saying to each other, they're not getting anywhere.

"We're going to lose him," Ryan says over Skype, three days before he's due to fly back to Edmonton for training camp. He can't think of a single thing that will help Nail.

"We're not," Jordan says, with all the authority of someone who has a backup plan. "We can't, Nuge."

"I don't think saying _pretty please_ will get the curse to just back off," Ryan says dryly. "Even if you put a cherry on top."

Jordan flaps a hand at him. "I might have figured out a work-around. Sort of. Maybe."

Ryan perks up. "Why didn't you say anything? This could be huge!"

"Because I don't know if it's actually going to work?" Jordan hedges. "Also, like. I don't think it's actually a super great idea, but I think it's worth a shot."

"What is it?"

Jordan sighs. "We give it something else. It wants Yak; that's not an option. If we offer it something, stipulate that it's specifically in exchange for Yak's safety…"

Ryan leans back in his chair. "That's insane," he says thoughtfully. "But it might actually work."

"It might," Jordan agrees. "If we can't think of anything else, then I'll try it."

"Why you?" Ryan interjects. "I can try it."

"I thought of it," Jordan argues. "I'll do it."

Ryan snorts. "This is dumb. Let's just figure something else out, okay?"

"Sure," Jordan agrees way too easily.

It makes Ryan hesitate a little. "You're gonna do it, aren't you?" It's not really a question.

"Not if we can figure something else out," Jordan promises. "So let's work on that, eh?"

"Let's," Ryan agrees, making the command decision to not worry about Jordan's plan until he has to.

-0-

Training camp is good; Ryan's pretty sure he'll be able to return for the start of the season, or at least pretty close to it. His shoulder feels totally normal, which is a great sign. It gives him more time to worry about the curse, which looks pretty much the same at centre ice: pulsing and almost glowing, shimmering just above the surface.

He catches Nail staring at it during practice one day. He's a little surprised that Nail had come back; even though Ryan and Jordan had spent the majority of their summer doing what they could, the fact that they hadn't actually made any progress made Ryan think that Nail might just stay in Russia. Nobody on the team would have blamed him, that's for sure, but he's on Edmonton ice.

"Ebs has a plan," Ryan says quietly, skating up to Nail during a break between drills. "We won't let it get you, okay?"

"What if it already has?" Nail whispers back. He's clutching his stick like he's getting ready to use it as a weapon. "What if I am like Smytty, and I will never win?"

"We'll deal with it," Ryan says firmly, even though he has no idea how they would actually do that. "Just worry about the hockey, okay? We'll take care of the rest."

Nail nods, and then Coach blows his whistle, and they both skate away.

Jordan grabs him after practice. "Look, I think we need to do something," he says, flicking his eyes over to Nail. He's sitting in his stall, slowly untaping his socks with shaking hands. "We're not getting anywhere, and we can't let it have him."

Ryan sighs. "Let's give it until the end of camp," he says. "We can revisit things before preseason starts. How's that?"

It makes Jordan frown. "Why not now?"

"Because I'm pretty sure you're going to do something stupid, and I'd like to do my best to make that not happen," Ryan snaps as quietly as he can manage. He definitely doesn't want to draw any attention to them. "I don't want to have to explain to Coach why you're suddenly missing your arm or something."

"I wouldn't give up an actual _arm_ ," Jordan protests. "Give me a little credit here, Nuge."

Ryan rolls his eyes. "Then tell me what you're actually planning."

"No," Jordan says firmly.

"Not making me want to budge on the 'let's wait' plan, Ebs."

Jordan sighs. "Fine, whatever. We'll wait."

"Good," Ryan says, eyeing him carefully. "Please don't do anything stupid."

"Stupid would be letting Yak get hurt," Jordan shoots back. "Stupid would be making him think he'll only be safe if he leaves. We can fix this."

Ryan sighs. "Shower," he says. "Just… later. Camp's only a few more days."

"That's sort of what I'm worried about," Jordan mutters, but he moves away to start stripping off his practice uniform.

Ryan takes a deep breath and lets it go for now. He's got a few more things to search for, now that he's been around the curse again. He's not holding out a lot of hope, but everything's worth a try. He thinks about it while he strips and showers, and more on the drive back to his place.

He's three-quarters of the way through the takeout lo mein he'd had delivered and entirely frustrated by yet another fruitless search when his phone rings. Taylor's face beams up at him, so Ryan snags it off the table and answers. "What's up?"

"Nothing," Taylor replies. He sounds a little nervous. "I, uh. I have a favor to ask?"

"I'm not agreeing until you tell me what it is," Ryan says immediately. He still hasn't really forgiven himself for the Great Walmart Disaster of 2011.

Taylor snorts. "No, like. I have to go shopping? And I need help."

Ryan rolls his eyes a little. "Ask Ebs. He's contractually obligated to help you pick out new and terrible cardigans. It's in the boyfriend papers."

He's met with silence, and for a minute he wonders if he dropped the call. Then Taylor sighs, an explosive sound down the line, and Ryan jumps a little. "So, like, don't laugh? But I want to go ring shopping."

"You," Ryan starts. "Like. You and Ebs are getting married?"

"Not right now," Taylor says in a rush. "But we've talked about it for after? And I want to, you know. Put a ring on it, even if it's not real yet."

Ryan can feel the smile spreading over his face. "That's great, man," he says sincerely. "I'll go, no problem. You let me know when, okay?"

Taylor laughs a little. "I don't want to make you think I chickened out on going by myself, but I might be in my car in front of your place."

"You are the most ridiculous person I've ever met," Ryan says, laughing. "Give me ten, I'll come down."

"Thanks," Taylor says, relieved.

"Any time," Ryan promises. "I've got your back."

-0-

Jordan calls Ryan just as Taylor is pulling back into a parking spot in front of Ryan's place a few hours later. Taylor is smiling and tapping his fingers to the beat of whatever's on the radio as Ryan answers. "Hey, Ebs."

"Nuge?"

Ryan is instantly on alert; Jordan sounds groggy, like he's been checked too hard into the boards and is now in serious pain. "Jordan? What's wrong?"

"Dunno," Jordan replies faintly. "My head hurts."

Taylor's looking right at Ryan. His smile has been replaced by a worried frown, and he's gripping the steering wheel. "What's going on? Where is he?"

"Where are you?" Ryan tries.

"Rink?" Jordan says. He's definitely confused. "I'm… there's ice. I'm at a rink."

"Rexall," Ryan mutters at Taylor. His heart is pounding in his chest as a thought occurs to him. "Do you know why you're at the rink, Jordan?"

"There was…" Jordan pauses. "Is Taylor there? I tried calling him."

"He's here," Ryan assures him. "His phone's just on silent. It's okay; we're coming." He pauses for a moment before repeating himself. "Why are you at the rink?"

"There was practice," Jordan says slowly. "And… something was wrong? Yak was upset, and I thought…"

"Fuck," Ryan hisses. "Hallsy, speed. Speed a lot."

"What happened?" Taylor asks. He sounds a little terrified, but he hits the gas. "Is he okay? Should we call 911?"

"No," Ryan says. "I don't think so. I don't think… I think it's a curse thing."

"Fuck," Taylor echoes. Ryan grabs at the door handle as the car gains even more speed. "I thought it didn't do repeat customers."

"We'll figure it out when we get there," Ryan says.

Jordan makes a faint sound over the line. "Nuge?"

"Yeah, buddy," Ryan says. "You okay?"

"I think I might pass out again," Jordan says like it's a confession, barely loud enough for Ryan to hear it.

"Again?" Ryan asks, voice raising against his will. "What do you mean _again_? Did you pass out before?"

There's no answer.

"Jordan," Ryan yells. He listens as hard as he can, but all he can hear is a soft, even sound that he can only hope is Jordan breathing.

"I'm calling 911," Taylor says tersely. "If he's unconscious—"

"If it's curse-related, calling 911 will just make it worse," Ryan snaps. "We need to call someone who already — do you have Aly's number?"

"Yeah," Taylor says. "She's in there as Aly Trainer."

Ryan can't even spare the energy to snort at Taylor's intense Taylor-ness. He just grabs Taylor's phone and hits Aly's contact, straining to hear anything from Jordan as he listens to it ring.

"Taylor," Aly greets as she picks up. "What's up?"

"It's Ryan and Taylor," Ryan says tersely, putting the phone on speaker. "Something's — there's a curse thing. It's Jordan. He's at the rink."

"What happened?" Aly asks calmly. He can hear sounds in the background, like she's moving around. "Is he hurt?"

"I think he's unconscious," Ryan reports. "He didn't sound good. He said he passed out earlier right before he passed out this time."

"I'm on my way there," Aly says. "You guys are headed over too?"

"Seven minutes," Taylor replies. "Assuming I don't get pulled over."

"Ryan, I need you to see what kind of concealment you can provide," Aly says. "I'm at least fifteen minutes away. You need to get there and let me know as much as you can, got it?"

"Got it," Ryan replies, hanging up. He hands his phone to Taylor. "Listen hard," he instructs. "And do your best to drive smoothly. The smoother we go, the better the concealment charm will work."

"Got it," Taylor says, tucking the phone into the crook of his neck.

Ryan takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He pictures the car, then flexes his hands until he feels his fingers tingling. He doesn't need to hear Taylor's sharp gasp to let him know it's working, but it doesn't hurt anything, either. He thinks about a mirror, a bubble, the car at the center of it all, and feels the spell flowing out of his fingers.

It snaps into place like a rubber band; Ryan reaches out and grabs at the magic, twisting his hands to hook it securely in place. The spell solidifies at his touch, and Ryan opens his eyes again.

"That's always super freaky," Taylor mutters. "All of a sudden your hands start fucking glowing. I don't like it."

"You don't have to like it," Ryan replies, leaning over and grabbing his phone back. "It's gonna let us get there faster. That's all that matters."

"I changed my mind, I like it now," Taylor says, and then he absolutely guns it.

"We're coming, Jordan," Ryan promises, listening as hard as he can to the steady rise and fall of breaths on the other end of the line.

Jordan doesn't reply.

-0-

Taylor doesn't even bother to park the car; he just pulls up alongside the players' entrance and shuts it off. Ryan is already out of the car, yanking at the concealment charm as he passes through it.

"Jordan!" Taylor bellows as soon as they get inside. "Fuck, babe, where are you?"

"By the ice," Ryan says. "He said there was ice. He's probably still down there."

Taylor's already beelining for the tunnel. "Ebs! Can you hear me?"

Ryan can't outpace Taylor on a good day, and Taylor's definitely got an adrenaline edge right now. "Don't touch him," he calls as Taylor bounds ahead of him in the tunnel. "Whatever you do, Hallsy. Do not touch him. Don't even get close. If there's some kind of magical field around him—"

"Shit," Taylor yells, skidding to a stop at the edge of the tunnel. "Shit, fuck, Jordan, what did you _do_?"

Ryan stops beside him, trying not to let his jaw drop. Jordan's at centre ice, or where centre ice would normally be. There's definitely no ice beneath him, though; there's the charred remains of a spell circle, and there's Jordan's crumpled form at the centre, hand still curled around his phone, but the ice is melted in a perfect circle the exact dimensions of the curse mark.

"Call Aly back," he says, taking a step out onto the ice. It feels solid beneath him this far away from centre ice, but he's pretty sure that's going to change as he walks. "Don't follow me. The spellwork will probably fuck with reception."

"Shit," Taylor says, voice shaky. He pulls his phone out, though, so Ryan takes another step forward.

There's a lot of residual energy in the air; none of it seems especially malevolent, but Ryan knows better than to believe that. His fingers flex and release, shield spell wrapping around him as he makes his way towards Jordan.

"He's breathing," he calls back to Taylor, who lets out a strangled sound. Ryan curls his hands into fists and takes a deep breath before opening them, making sure he's coated in energy before he reaches out.

It's… odd, Ryan decides. The curse is still there, but it's not moving as much, not pulsing or brimming with the need to take from someone. Ryan realises with a jolt that it's because right now, it doesn't need anything. Whatever Jordan had given it has sated it for now.

It's a terrifying thought.

There's nothing preventing him from making his way to Jordan's side, though, so Ryan carefully pushes forward. It's really weird when he hits the edge of the curse mark. The ice doesn't get slushy, like he was expecting; instead, it's suddenly just… missing. He takes a step down and walks across the solid flooring that's usually beneath the ice until he can crouch down next to Jordan.

The residual spell energy is stronger here, like Ryan figured it would be. It's still not enough to keep him from reaching out, which is a conundrum for a day when Ryan's not worried about Jordan. He touches Jordan's shoulder and rolls him from his side onto his back.

"Aly wants to know how his color is," Taylor says from the bench.

Ryan looks down, trying to judge. "He looks okay," he calls back. "A little pale, but not bad."

"Is he," Taylor says, hesitating. "Is he bleeding anywhere? Are there any visible curse marks on him?"

"No and not that I can see," Ryan says. He puts both hands flat on Jordan's chest and pushes with his magic. "I don't feel anything, either."

Taylor doesn't say anything for a moment, and then he sighs. "I'm gonna put you on speaker," he says.

A moment later, Aly's voice rings through the rink. "Ryan, I'm caught in a traffic jam. I'm technically only three minutes away, but there's an accident in front of me. Is he stable?"

"I think so," Ryan says cautiously. "I'm not a healer, Aly. I don't know for sure."

"Can you cast a basic diagnostic spell?" she asks.

"I haven't in about a decade," he replies. "I used to be able to, but…"

"Try it," she says firmly. "One hand on skin, one hand flat above, facing up."

"Yeah," Ryan mutters, doing as she says. The spell comes to mind easily; Ryan's always had a good memory for the way spells work, their component parts and gossamer layers. He focuses on the patterns and starts speaking, the words flowing from him like he's reading from a page. That's the way higher-level magic works, but even knowing that, Ryan shivers as he speaks without really thinking about it.

A pale yellow glow spreads from the hand Ryan has on Jordan's stomach, stretching around until it covers his whole body. He keeps speaking, moving the hand above Jordan's chest in a simple pattern, curling and falling, rising up and flattening out. Slowly, a pulsing sphere rises from the glow surrounding Jordan, floating up until it rests in Ryan's palm. He closes his hand around it, murmuring a few more words before letting go and slumping back.

"Hey," Taylor says, from way closer than Ryan told him to stay. Ryan turns his head and glares a little, but that's about all he can manage right now. "Is that a good sign?"

Ryan looks at the diagnostic. "It's not awful," he allows. "The more solid it is, the better. If you can see right through it, you're in trouble, and if you're totally fine, it's completely solid." He points at the sphere, which is spinning lazily a few inches above Jordan's body. "It's not solid, but it's not see-through. He's not fine, but he's not in immediate danger."

Taylor squats down and helps Ryan sit up. "I'll take your word for it. So he's gonna be okay?"

"Probably," Ryan hedges. He's got no idea what Jordan gave the curse; he'd known who Ryan was on the phone, and he'd tried to call Taylor, so he's still Jordan in there. Ryan can't promise Taylor anything until he knows more, though. "He'll definitely be fine until Aly gets here."

"She just hung up before I came out here," Taylor says. "She managed to get off the highway. She should be here any second."

"Good," Ryan mutters. He keeps his eyes on the diagnostic sphere; it keeps twinkling and spinning, but it doesn't change opacity at all.

Aly rushes in less than a minute later. "What did he do?" she demands, skidding her way across the ice. "The curse has never gotten someone more than once. Was it not his knee a couple of years ago?"

Ryan watches as she studies his diagnostic spell, then starts working something more complicated. "I think," he starts, then stops, looking at Taylor. "He was planning something."

"Specifics," Aly snaps. "Planning what?"

"Yak," Taylor says suddenly. "Shit. He did something so it wouldn't hurt Yak."

"Yeah," Ryan says, staring down at Jordan. "He mentioned it a while ago, and I told him we'd find something else, some other way." He shifts a little. "But then he brought it up again today. I thought… I told him to just wait. I guess he was done waiting."

"What did he do?" Taylor asks. "What did he give it?"

"I don't know," Ryan says slowly. "He wouldn't tell me what he was planning. I thought it would be something physical, but it doesn't look like he's hurt."

"He's not," Aly says, fingers ghosting across Jordan's body. "Not physically."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Taylor asks. There's something thin is voice, like he's barely holding it together. Ryan can't blame him at all.

Aly's fingers stop suddenly over Jordan's hair. She murmurs something beneath her breath, and Ryan has to bite his cheek to keep himself from gasping when purple smoke suddenly appears, slowly drifting up and away.

"Memories," she says, staring at the smoke. "Something he really, really didn't want to forget. He gave it up."

Taylor doesn't react, and doesn't react, and then he makes a small, hurt noise. "Do you know what it was?"

Aly shakes her head. "There's no way to know. When he wakes up, we can figure it out, but until then…"

One look at Taylor is all Ryan needs to confirm what he'd already been afraid of. He reaches out to grab Taylor's arm and squeeze. "He called you first," he says quietly. "He didn't forget you."

"Let me try…" Aly murmurs. She waves her hand to dissipate her spell, then puts two fingers on Jordan's throat. Something almost like a song comes out of her mouth, and Jordan groans and bucks under her fingers. She frowns and taps her fingers against his throat, and Jordan's eyes snap open.

"Oh my god," Taylor says, scrambling forward. Ryan reaches out and grabs him, yanking back and unbalancing Taylor.

"Let Aly do her thing," he says when Taylor shoots him a betrayed look.

Jordan is already pushing himself up and blinking. "Did I pass out again?" he asks. He still sounds out of it, but it's better than it had been on the phone. "My head hurts. A lot."

"What did you do?" Ryan demands, still holding Taylor back. "You said we were going to wait!"

"I couldn't," Jordan says slowly. "I think… Yak. It was going to hurt Yak, and I stopped it."

"What did you give it?" Aly asks, remarkably calm. "We know it was memories of something. Do you know what?"

Jordan looks at her blankly. "No. I have no idea… how do you remember something you forgot?"

"Fuck that," Taylor says, twisting out of Ryan's grasp. He grabs Jordan and yanks him close, hugging him tightly. "You scared the shit out of me, Ebby."

"I'm okay," Jordan says, reaching up a little gingerly to hug Taylor back. He lets go far quicker than Ryan thought he would. "Just a headache now. I should be able to sleep it off."

"Good," Taylor says, finally letting go. He only draws back far enough to look Jordan in the eyes. "Please don't do shit like this again. I'm too young for a heart attack."

"If you have a heart attack, it's all the KD," Jordan shoots back immediately. Ryan has to fight back a smile.

"You're the worst," Taylor says, groaning, but he can't keep it up for long. He breaks into a grin, and then leans back in to peck Jordan on the lips.

Jordan goes completely stiff, and Ryan's heart jumps up into his throat. Taylor can clearly tell that something's not right, too, because he pulls back and frowns. "What's wrong?"

"I," Jordan starts, shooting Ryan a look he can't interpret at all. "Uh. I wasn't expecting that, Hallsy. I'm… um."

He's trying hard to sound diplomatic, Ryan can tell, but Taylor is giving him a blank, confused look, and Aly's expression is one of slowly dawning comprehension. Ryan clears his throat and hopes against hope that this isn't what it looks like. "Nothing we haven't seen before," he tries, grinning as well as he can.

Jordan shakes his head slowly. "What are you _talking_ about? That has definitely never happened before."

"Jordan," Taylor says hoarsely, letting go and leaning away a little bit. "We've been together for four years. Since we started with the Oilers, practically. Four _years_."

"That's," Jordan starts, looking back and forth between everyone gathered around him. "That's insane, Hallsy. We're friends, we're roommates. I would remember if—"

That must be when he realises it, Ryan thinks a little distantly, because his eyes go wide and he shifts like he wants to move away. Taylor's still practically on top of him, though, so he doesn't really go anywhere.

"Well," Aly says quietly, "I guess we know, now."

-0-

"I'll just remind him," Taylor says.

Jordan is in the trainers' room with Aly, getting a complete physical done. Ryan's sitting with Taylor in the locker room, and it's the first thing Taylor has said since Jordan's little revelation at centre ice.

"I mean, I've been in love with him for at least three years," Taylor goes on, voice getting stronger. "And, like, I get what he did, I guess. Yak's dream was…" He shudders. "But I love him, he loves me, all the good stuff. He doesn't remember it all, which sucks hardcore, but we can just… make new memories."

"Yeah," Ryan agrees. He's a little angry at himself and a lot angry at Jordan; he should have kept pushing, made Jordan tell him what it was he was going to do. He might have been able to talk Jordan out of it, and if not, then he at least could've been present while Jordan did whatever crazy thing he did to make the curse listen. "That sounds good, Hallsy."

Taylor slumps back into his stall. He's quiet for a while before giving a bitter chuckle. "Guess I'm glad I didn't decide on a ring today, eh?"

"A ring for—" Jordan says, and they both jump and turn. He's standing in the doorway of the locker room, looking like he's seen every ghost there is to see. He swallows hard. "We were getting married?"

Taylor is completely still beside Ryan. It takes Ryan nudging him a little to get him to nod and shrug at the same time. "We were… talking about it. For after. I was gonna ask you for real, once I found a good enough ring."

"Sorry," Jordan mumbles, looking like he's about to be sick. "I fucked it up."

"We can just start over," Taylor says. It's probably the bravest thing Ryan's ever heard anyone say in his life. "You're a dumbass, but you meant well. I guess I can forgive you, since _I_ haven't forgotten how much I love your stupid face."

Jordan's smile looks a little forced, but it's there all the same. "Let's do that, then."

This is definitely not something Ryan wants to be present for, so he makes a show out of standing and stretching. "If you guys are okay, I'm gonna catch a ride home with Aly," he says. He has no idea if she lives anywhere near him, or if she's even still at Rexall. He'll call for a taxi if he needs to, though. "Call me if you need anything, okay?"

"Will do," Taylor says, never looking away from Jordan. "Thanks, Nuge."

"Thanks, Nuge," Jordan echoes.

Yeah, it's time for Ryan to make his escape.

-0-

Ryan's phone rings at three in the morning. It's Taylor, and Ryan feels an awful sense of deja vu. "Hallsy?"

Taylor heaves a ragged sigh. "He forgot again," he says, sounding wrecked. "We talked for hours, Nuge, and then we fell asleep in our bed, and he just woke up and asked what I was doing in his room."

Ryan swallows hard. "What did you do?"

"I panicked," Taylor says. "I told him I must have fallen asleep talking, and I got up and left, and now I'm in — Ryan, I haven't slept in this room in years. It's not my room."

"Okay," Ryan says, sitting up and popping his spine. "Okay, Hallsy. I'm gonna go put the water on. Come over."

There's a pause. "I didn't mean you had to—"

"Taylor," Ryan cuts in firmly as he stands. "Get your ass over here. I'm up, I'm almost in the kitchen. I'm making hot chocolate. You can crash in my guest room, and we can figure it out in the morning."

Taylor's quiet for a long moment as Ryan makes his way into the kitchen. The only reason Ryan's sure the call hasn't dropped is that he can hear Taylor breathing, low and a forced kind of even. "I'm not sure there's anything to figure," he finally says. "He doesn't remember. I explained everything, I answered every question, and as soon as he fell asleep, it was all gone again."

Ryan hates the curse with a desperate kind of fervor; it's not that he's ever been fond of it, but now he wants to be the one who personally tears it out of Rexall, uproots it and pulls it apart layer by layer until the sticky strands of magic float away in the wind. Nothing has the right to make Taylor sound like this, and even if Jordan meant well — which Ryan knows for an absolute fact that he did — it doesn't change the fact that the curse has now taken something vital from Taylor and Jordan, and if it hadn't, it might have taken even more from Nail.

"Just come over," Ryan repeats. Taylor might be right; Jordan might not be able to remember their relationship, and the curse might have done something to prevent him from forming new memories about it. If that's true, though, Ryan's going to do whatever he can to help Taylor pick up the pieces. "Hot chocolate. And we can watch Elf even though it's only September."

Taylor laughs weakly. "Are you bribing me, Nuge?"

"Is it working?" Ryan shoots back, putting a kettle on to boil. "Don't make me drive over there. I'm wearing snowman pants and I'm not changing."

"I would never make you leave the house in your snowman pants," Taylor says. "Give me a few. I have to pack clothes and shit."

"I'll leave the door open," Ryan replies. "Just come in when you get here."

Taylor agrees and hangs up, and Ryan sighs as he wanders to the living room and sits. The more he thinks about the complexity of what Jordan had done, the less sense it makes, but he's not sure why he thinks that. Thinking about the curse with any kind of concerted effort makes his head hurt; it's probably part of the curse itself, Ryan thinks for not the first time. It's hard to break something you can't think about clearly.

He does his best to push through the headache. There's something off, something weird about the way the curse behaves, but Ryan can't place what it is. Every time he tries to take a step back, to think about it logically, his dream pops into his mind, still as clear as it was when he dreamed it. The smell of smoke is acrid in his nose, and he coughs on nothing, choking on air that's perfectly breathable. The voice at the end is something that he knows he'll never be able to forget. _This is your price._

Except it wasn't, Ryan thinks suddenly, and there's a clarity to the thought that he doesn't normally have when he thinks about the curse. It wasn't, and it had something else instead. And that should have been it, there shouldn't have been an option for—

The front door bangs open, and Ryan loses his train of thought.

"Hey," Taylor says. He looks about five seconds away from dropping where he stands.

"Shit," Ryan breathes, walking towards him. He's not generally an overly affectionate person off the ice, but Taylor looks like he needs a hug more than he needs his next breath, so Ryan wraps his arms around Taylor and braces himself. He's glad he did; Taylor sags into him with a messy sigh, and they just stand there in the entryway for a minute while Taylor tries his best to collect himself. 

"This is the worst," Taylor finally says, making no move to disentangle himself from Ryan. "This is just… I don't think he's gonna remember."

"We'll keep trying," Ryan says firmly. "We're not giving up, Taylor. I'm not, and you shouldn't. This is _Jordan_."

"I know," Taylor mumbles. His hands are clenched into fists in Ryan's sleep shirt. "That's why it's the worst."

"It's not great," Ryan agrees. "Still, though. There's gotta be something we can do."

"Hope they break the curse," Taylor mutters. "I think that's the only hope I have at this point."

"Then that's what we hope for," Ryan says. "C'mon, Hallsy. I've got cocoa and Netflix and a thousand pillows on the sofa. Let's do this."

-0-

Jordan doesn't remember, and doesn't remember, and doesn't remember.

Ryan doesn't want to believe it, but as training camp becomes preseason, as preseason melts into the regular season, he's forced to admit that Taylor had been right: there's really nothing they can do. No matter how often they try to convince Jordan, no matter how many photos he sees or stories he hears, no matter which teammate attempts to convince him, he never remembers for more than a few hours. Even when he does end up believing them, it's never memory; it's just him accepting that this is what he gave up, and then it's him forgetting it all over again before the day is done.

The only memory that Jordan has is that he forgot something. He can never recall what it was, and it clearly frustrates him. It's made even worse by the fact that he and Taylor are still living together since, as far as Jordan knows, they've always been roommates and best friends; he asks Taylor time and time again if Taylor knows what he gave up, and he never understands why Taylor gets upset. The spare room at Ryan's becomes Taylor's in all but his name being on the lease, and Ryan starts wondering what's going to be the straw that breaks the camel's back.

The season drags on, though. It's the same torture that Ryan's come to expect; they win some, they lose more. Guys get injured and come back, and little by little, the curse mark at centre ice gets darker and darker.

"Whatever it took from me, I think it was enough for a while," Jordan says thoughtfully to Ryan one day right before their short Christmas break. "And now it's getting… hungry, I guess."

"Yeah," Ryan mutters.

"Hey," Jordan says, faux casual. "Do you know what it was? That I forgot?"

"Yeah," Ryan repeats. "You won't believe me if I tell you. Or you will, but you'll just forget again."

Jordan's face falls. "You're sure?" Ryan has no idea what look is on his face, but Jordan flinches a little before glancing away. "Okay, yeah. You're sure."

"Sorry," Ryan says. He's tired; he's so tired of all of this, of curses and sad friends and only seeming to make things worse. He's tired of his own contract extension, and he hasn't even started playing those years yet.

"Me too," Jordan mumbles. "Except I'm not sure what for."

"Just don't ask—"

"—Taylor," Jordan finishes. He gives Ryan a weak smile. "I don't know why, but I do know that I shouldn't. He gets…" He trails off and shrugs uncomfortably. "I guess whatever it was made him upset."

"Yeah," Ryan says, swallowing. "It did."

Jordan nods slowly. "Sometimes I think," he begins, but then goes silent.

Ryan's heart is suddenly pounding. Could Jordan be remembering something? "Think what?" he asks.

"I don't know," Jordan says after a second, frustrated. "I swear I had a way to end that sentence, but now I have no idea what I was going to say."

Ryan nods. "Probably part of the curse."

"Yeah," Jordan agrees. He sighs. "I want to complain about it, but I did it to myself." He pauses. "Also, I think it might be worse for Hallsy. Somehow."

"I don't think it's good for either one of you," Ryan says. "I'm not going to pick and choose who has it worse. It sucks, full stop."

"Fair," Jordan says. He sighs again. "I guess I'm doomed to be annoyed by this until they break the thing, huh?"

"Probably," Ryan says.

"At least they're _working on it_ ," Jordan says dryly. "I might get my memories back before I die. That'd be nice."

"Maybe don't joke about that," Ryan advises, shuddering. "Tempting fate, you know?"

Jordan makes a face. "Yeah, okay."

It's a lot to think about, though, and Ryan does his best to do so while he's back at home for the holiday. It's not that it's any easier when he's back in Burnaby, but his family is used to him sleeping through most of the holidays, so it's not weird that he locks himself in his room with the lights off. He's no closer to figuring anything out when he leaves again, though.

And then Jordan gets injured in January.

It's minor, as injuries go; he tweaks his knee, and Aly give him the "rest and ice" command before sending him home. Taylor drives, because for all everything between them has changed, there's also a lot that has stayed the same. Ryan's anticipating something going wrong, and sure enough, he gets a call from Jordan a few hours later.

"He's being weird," Jordan mutters. "Like, he got me chicken noodle soup? Which is a Hallsy thing, don't get me wrong, he thinks it cures everything. But he's hovering, Nuge, and I think if I tell him to fuck off he might cry."

Ryan sighs. "Give him the phone," he commands, silently wondering if he can put _relationship counsellor_ on his resume in the future. Maybe _amateur therapist_.

"Hey," Taylor says a moment later, fake cheerful. "Nuge! What's up?"

"You're freaking him out," Ryan says calmly. "It's his knee, he's fine, stop hovering."

Taylor's voice gets quiet. "I'm just… I can't do nothing. I don't know how to do nothing."

"You kind of have to do nothing," Ryan says, as gently as he can manage. "If you do much more, Taylor, you're going to end up telling him again."

"Maybe this time," Taylor starts.

"Don't," Ryan cuts in. "Don't do that to yourself."

"I haven't tried in a while," Taylor argues.

Ryan closes his eyes and shakes his head. "You know what they say, right? About doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results?"

Taylor's quiet for a minute before he sighs. "Can I come crash?"

"Yeah, of course," Ryan says immediately. "I'll heat up some pasta for you."

"You're the best," Taylor says. "I feel like I don't tell you that enough."

"You definitely don't," Ryan says, smiling a little. "See you soon."

-0-

Nail hurts his ankle at the end of February, and he refuses to meet anyone's eye when they ask him about the curse. "I don't know," he mumbles. "Maybe. It could be."

Ryan knows the team means well, but few of them know all of the details of what Jordan had done at the start of the season. It's not a secret that Nail had had his dream; it's not a secret that Jordan had done something with the curse that caused him to forget about everything with Taylor. Not a lot of guys have made that connection, though, and the only thing that Taylor has really been able to talk to Nail about is not telling the team about it.

"Too many questions," he'd said when Ryan asked why. "For all of us. It's easier to just… not."

Ryan can read between the lines; it's easier, yeah, and it's also less painful. Jordan doesn't have to wonder what he gave up, and Nail doesn't have to admit that he feels guilty about it, and Taylor doesn't have to deal with it any more than he already does. It half-works, but that's about the best they can hope for.

It's the end of Nail's season, but he's not going to need surgery; it might be a potshot from the curse, injuring him but not badly enough to last, or it might just be hockey happening to Nail. There's no real way to tell, and really, there's no reason to go poking. Nail's done for the season either way.

"I should just go home," Nail mutters when Ryan stops in to visit him. "They will take me. I would be safe."

"Nail," Ryan starts.

Nail turns to look at him. "If you had just let me go," he says, quiet and level, "Jordan would not have done what he did. He and Hallsy would still be fine."

Ryan sits back, stunned. He hadn't thought about it that way before, but all of a sudden Nail's behavior over the season makes a lot more sense. He'd known in a vague sort of way that Nail felt guilty; Jordan's actions had been a direct response to Nail being afraid of what the curse would do, and that would fuck with anybody. Ryan's suddenly angry at himself for not following up more with Nail. "This is not your fault," he says.

Nail gives him a thin smile. "Of course it is."

"No," Ryan insists. "We would have found another way. Jordan made a choice that he probably shouldn't have made—"

"—because of me," Nail cuts in. "Because I was afraid, and all I could think about was a contract with Nizhnekamsk, and Jordan did not want to lose me. And I did not stop him, even when I knew that he was planning something foolish."

Ryan blinks at him. "He told you? You knew?"

"No," Nail says hastily. "No, of course not. He just said that he would… make a trade, he said. Give the curse something that it wanted, and in return, I would be safe." He shakes his head. "I knew that it would have to be something big. Too big. And yet, I did nothing to talk him out of it."

"It's not your fault," Ryan says again. He's not sure Nail will believe him; he's not sure he totally believes himself, at this point. "Jordan's a big boy. He's responsible for himself." Ryan hesitates. "And if we're assigning blame here, I knew he was going to trade something, too. I didn't do anything either."

Nail hums a little. "Perhaps we can blame the curse," he suggests.

Ryan smiles faintly. "Always. We can always blame the curse."

"To the curse," Nail says in a monotone, raising his hand like he's toasting something. "May it wither and rot."

"I'd drink to that," Ryan agrees.

It makes Nail roll his eyes. "If anyone refused to, we would blame them for the curse, no?"

"Good point," Ryan acknowledges. "Maybe I'll give it a try at the next team thing."

"I will ask the training staff," Nail muses. "And the coaches I see for PT."

"Knocking out suspects, one by one," Ryan says. "Gotta have a plan for your time on IR or you'll want to climb the walls by day three, trust me."

"I will do my best detective work," Nail says. He even cracks a slight smile.

"Well, I'm glad you've got a new hobby," Ryan says. "You gonna be okay?"

Nail nods. "I will survive."

Ryan snorts. "Someone should write a song," he says. He only has to wait a beat before Nail smiles and starts to sing, terribly but enthusiastically.

Ryan's work here is clearly done.

-0-

The summer is quiet.

That's probably for the best; after last summer's frantic train-research-eat-research-sleep schedule, a normal hockey offseason sounds pretty great. Ryan does his best to bulk up for the season and to not worry too hard about what the actual season is going to bring. He's borrowed enough trouble on that front already, and it hasn't exactly gotten him anything good.

He manages to put off thinking about next season until the middle of August, when he gets a text from Taylor. It's not like they never get in touch over the summer, but this is just a single question mark and a frowning emoji. Ryan waits a few minutes, but that's all he gets.

"Hey," Taylor says, sounding midseason tired when he answers the phone. "You're not busy?"

"Never too busy for frowny faces," Ryan says as seriously as he can. "What's going on?"

"Ebs is moving out."

Ryan blinks a few times. "What?"

"He said," Taylor says, inhaling deeply. "He knows that whatever he did hurt me, and he can't stay, because it keeps hurting me, and that's hurting him. Because I'm his best friend. And he can't do that to either one of us."

"Shit," Ryan says, a little helplessly. "I'm sorry, Taylor."

"At least I got a breakup, right?" Taylor says with a bitter laugh. "At least I can, I don't know. Stop hoping he'll magically remember how much I fucking love him."

Ryan closes his eyes and sighs. "It might be for the best," he says gently. "He's not wrong about it hurting you, and you know that hurts him. I know it sucks, but until we can break the curse…"

"That curse is going to outlive you and me put together," Taylor says, voice dull. "He's never going to remember, and I'm never going to be able to forget."

It's harsh, but Taylor's earned that right. It's not like it doesn't feel that way, either; Ryan can never really rid himself of the knowledge of the curse, right in the back of his mind. "I'm sorry," he offers up. It's weak, but it's all he's got.

"Maybe I'll move, too," Taylor says. "I can't — I don't know if I can face living in our apartment by myself."

Ryan bites his lip to keep himself from blurting that Taylor can just take his spare room. There are a lot of memories there for Taylor, too, and a lot of them are Jordan-related. It probably won't help him to be there. "That's a good idea," he says instead. "If you want to go looking, I can take some time to go up there with you."

"Thanks, Nuge," Taylor says. "I'm probably just gonna ask the front office to figure something out for me. I don't really want to deal with it."

"Fair," Ryan says. "Still, let me know if you change your mind. It's a pretty quick flight from here."

"You're a good guy, you know that?" Taylor replies. It sounds like he's actually cracked a little bit of a smile. "And I didn't even ask how your summer's going. I'm a dick."

Ryan laughs a little. "It's fine. You know, the normal. Train, relax, train some more, eat as much shitty food as I can squeeze in without feeling bad about it, train even more so I can work off the extra calories."

Taylor snorts. "Like you need to work off any extra calories. What are you, like, four percent body fat? Half the time I just want to make you eat a sandwich, man."

"Thanks, I think," Ryan says, laughing. "It's just summer, you know? Nothing good, nothing bad. I'm getting a lot of golf in." He doesn't mention the lack of research projects this year; this conversation is going in a nice, non-Jordan-related direction. He doesn't need to bring it up.

"Hey, we should hit the links together before the season," Taylor says. "Maybe I'll change my mind about apartment hunting. If you're still in for helping me with that bullshit, I'll treat you to a few rounds."

"Sounds good to me," Ryan says. It's pretty much the first thing Taylor's sounded even slightly excited about since before last season. And it's golf, so it's not like Ryan's not into it. "Let me know when you're thinking, and I'll make sure I'm in Edmonton."

"I'll get back to you later today," Taylor promises. "Vacation buddies, aw yeah."

Ryan laughs. "We'll put a ton of photos on Twitter and make PR mad that we didn't tell them we were going to be in town," he promises. "It'll be great."

"It _will_ be great," Taylor declares. "Best Nuge."

"I'd better be, I'm the only one you've got," Ryan says dryly, but Taylor hangs up laughing, so it's a good conversation all in all.

-0-

They end up doing their house-hunting/golf trip right before training camp. It goes well, Ryan thinks; they find Taylor a new place and get him moved in before Jordan gets back to town, and then they spend a bunch of time touring various golf courses in the area. Taylor is summer-tan and more relaxed than he'd been last season, and Ryan can only hope that he can start actually moving on this year.

Of course, the season itself does them no favors. Ryan gets into a fight early in the season and can't really figure out why afterwards; Taylor suffers injury after injury after injury, and he's on his own in his new place so much that Ryan's not sure it's actually better that he moved. At least he'd be in familiar surroundings.

Nail and Jordan, on the other hand, are almost uncannily healthy. Ryan tries not to think about why, but it's pretty clear: the curse has taken enough from them, or on their behalf. It's leaving them alone for now. Ryan's not sure either of them has more to give, at this point, so the curse is probably just biding its time, waiting for the next person to come along who can dream a little dream of horror.

The season ends with a whimper, which is how it started, too, and also how the middle went. They're not dead last; they finished above the Sabres and the Coyotes, so at least they've got that going for them. Third overall might be less pressure, Ryan thinks. Third overall will get them a good player, maybe even a great one, but third overall is probably someone who can use another year in juniors. It gives them another year to try to break the curse before bringing someone new on board.

And then they win the draft lottery.

"Fuck," Taylor says bleakly. "I mean, it would have sucked for whoever we got, but did we have to lure another first overall pick here to die?"

"He's not going to _die_ ," Jordan says, rolling his eyes. Taylor hides his flinch almost all the way, and Ryan feels a surge of pride that Taylor's holding it together, then a surge of anger that he's in a position to have to in the first place. They're feelings as old as Taylor's hurt, though, so he swallows them down.

"You don't know that," Nail says darkly, which is a fair point, honestly.

Ryan sighs. "The draft is in Florida," he says. "We can't tell him until he's drafted, but I don't think we have anyone near there."

Jordan shifts a little. "Toronto area, right? So any one of us could fly in there."

"Or I could just drive in and tell him," Taylor says, leaning back and closing his eyes. "Nothing better to do in late June than scar the rookie, right?"

"Hallsy," Jordan says. It's the mild tone of voice that Taylor fucking hates; he'd once told Ryan that he'd rather Jordan just yell, because then at least he didn't feel unreasonable for being pissed off.

"No, that's a good idea,' Ryan cuts in. "It draws less attention if you're there, Hallsy. It'd be a little weird for it to be Yak."

"I'm not doing it," Nail says flatly. "Not ever."

"If we draft some Russian kid in the future, we might argue that," Jordan says. "But yeah, okay. I guess it's Hallsy, unless someone's got a better idea."

There's a whole lot of silence, and then Taylor sighs. "Well," he says, staring at the screen, where McDavid's face is an awful shade of nauseous as he tries to sound enthusiastic about Edmonton. "I guess it's better to warn him than to toss him in the deep end with an anchor tied around his legs."

"That's graphic," Nail says, blinking. "But accurate, yes."

Ryan briefly wonders who or what McDavid's dream will be about before he makes himself stop. There's no reason to; he'll probably find out soon enough. Hopefully they can figure out something to do to help McDavid that doesn't involve any of them giving up something else that's vital. Or maybe, Ryan thinks a little desperately, maybe now that their new first overall pick is so good he might as well be one of the hockey gods, maybe they'll finally break the curse.

He's not holding out a lot of hope, but anything is possible.

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERY CONTENT NOTES FOR THIS FIC: ebs gives up all of his memories of his relationship with hallsy in order to protect yakupov from the curse. he's unable to form new ones, and almost immediately forgets every reminder he gets, no matter what. he doesn't get the memories back in this fic, and the ending is bleak, at least partially because of that. this is, however, a prequel to the first fic in the series; read that one to fix everything :)
> 
>  **possible syn warning:** in the scene where ryan meets up with sid, he breaks the confidentiality agreement and gets hit with a spell that causes magical strangulation. the spell is quickly broken by sid, but it is described. later, when yakupov is describing his dream, he goes into some detail about injuries. they never happen, but he describes the dream asking him to be injured.
> 
> -the first year nuge was on the oilers, he was one of five dudes named ryan. five. that's too many dudes named ryan. (nugent-hopkins, smyth, jones [yes, the guy nuge lived with], whitney, and o'marra, for those keeping track at home.)
> 
> -nuge's ex from juniors is made up. he's not an old teammate or anything.
> 
> -alyson brenniss, trainer/healer extraordinaire, is also made up.
> 
> -all of the details about smytty's playing and playoffs history are accurate, including the kings stuff. they won the cup, got smytty, got booted from the playoffs two years running, traded him to edmonton, and promptly won the cup again. so.
> 
> -have some more pain: in the theoretical movie version of this, the scene where jordan does the thing has james blunt's "goodbye my lover" playing in the background. you're welcome!
> 
> -there might be a DVD commentary version of this one in the future, too. if that's a thing you'd be interested in, let me know in the comments!
> 
> -i had to make a spreadsheet to keep track of all of the injuries that happened to the main people in this fic. [it's called "oilers owies."](https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1KxXQcSt1fJga8IuWkw_lpVUCCTKctwJVpRvC9jX8BAg/edit?usp=sharing) it is very full of things.
> 
> -[follow me on tumblr](http://somehowunbroken.tumblr.com) for hockey. that's it. that's the tumblr.


End file.
